


Leader

by rhinestonekitty



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Anxiety, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexual Katsuki Yuuri, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Competition, Confused Katsuki Yuuri, Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Dancer Victor Nikiforov, Developing Relationship, Drunk Katsuki Yuuri, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Lonely Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Panic Attacks, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Rivals, Romance, Sara Crispino is a Good Friend, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Vicchan Lives, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhinestonekitty/pseuds/rhinestonekitty
Summary: It was no secret that Viktor Nikiforov came from a well-to-do background and didn’t have to bother with teaching as a source of income to support his competitive lifestyle, like everyone else had to. And it was also no secret that he was currently “between partners”, which meant he was on this west coast teaching tour for one reason only—he was bored. It was an insult to the profession, to the hard work other dancers put in every day, for someone so uncommitted to charge nearly twice as much per lesson as the rest of them. Watching the Russian work Phichit with his easy smile and coquettish hair flip, Yuuri decided with all certainty that, no,hatewas not too strong of a word.***A canon-esque ballroom AU with a twist. Basically, what might happen if YOI was set in the world of competitive ballroom dancing instead of figure skating.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Sara Crispino & Katsuki Yuuri
Comments: 231
Kudos: 291
Collections: maazeesfavs





	1. Drool

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the United States and starts in spring time with the characters aged down by two years. Please note that ballroom dancers peak much later than figure skaters, often in their 30’s.
> 
> I’ll call out ballroom-specific things that will help your reading experience at the start of each chapter, with additional details at the end. Feel free to skip them if you want to jump right into the story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri finds inspiration to compete again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dancesport: the official term for competitive ballroom dancing
> 
> Ballroom: an umbrella term that can mean any kind of ballroom dancing, social or competitive
> 
> Latin: The style with the skimpy dresses and fake tans. The 5 dances are: cha cha, samba, rumba, paso doble, jive
> 
> Standard: The style with the ballgowns. The 5 dances are: waltz, tango, Viennese waltz, foxtrot, quickstep. Unlike Latin, the couple dances in closed frame the whole time—there are no underarm turns or side by side choreography. (Some also call this style Ballroom, but to avoid confusion with terminology, I will only refer to it as Standard.)
> 
> Figure: a dance “move”; a named and codified bit of choreography (often 1 or 2 measures long, but sometimes more) that can be strung together with other figures to form a routine

Drool. Yuuri groaned as he roused from his unintended late afternoon nap, feeling the tiny pool of dribble that had spilled out the side of his mouth and onto the pillow below some time in the last hour. He set an alarm on his phone just in case, foolishly optimistic that he wouldn’t need it, only for it to now buzz unpleasantly on his nightstand. Perhaps coming home from the studio at midnight only to be up by six this morning for yoga wasn’t the best idea. Or perhaps his collapse was from skipping breakfast to make it out to the local competition in time to watch the latest crop. God, he missed it. Standing with a clipboard for hours just watching, but not dancing, was torture, both exhausting and exhilarating, fueling his desire to be back on the ballroom floor.

But that would have to be another day. Because today, his legs were jello. Or perhaps lead? No, somehow, inexplicably, they felt like both. He cursed himself for neglecting to stretch before flopping into bed. Three years ago, he would have bounced back without a problem. But this was not three years ago. This was now, and his older body still couldn’t keep up with the new demands of the last month, having gone from three years of teaching and light practice to near full on competitive training. A week ago exactly, he finally stopped asking himself, when will it get easier? When will he return to his previous weight? When will he find a new partner? Because what’s important for now was that he’s back in the game.

The flip of the switch was ridiculous, really. He was almost ashamed to admit it, if it didn’t strike such a chord, if it wasn’t so damn effective. An anime of all things! An anime! About figure skating, no less. But something about the main character’s struggle in that first episode, with his weight, with his future, hit just too close to home. Yuuri watched that episode with his jaw to the floor, envious of how the skater got tired of being depressed, of how he decided to find a way to keep going. The skating world wasn’t at all the same as ballroom, but it was close enough. The parallels were as countless as the Swarovski crystals. He saw so much of himself—too much to just sit still. After years of fighting with motivation, of forcing himself to do all the right things only to end up crushed by his own disappointment, he finally felt weightless, inspired. Suddenly, training was no longer a chore.

Not to say it was easy. Because it wasn’t. But one decision made all the difference. After an entire competitive career in Latin, Yuuri made the bold switch to Standard. Most dancesport athletes specialize in one style or the other, while a few compete in both. From the day he started dancing with Yuuko, his one and only partner, they specialized in Latin. It’s what she wanted and he just wanted to dance with her, even if he secretly wished to dance Standard instead. As they got older, and better, they continued with Latin. The coaches told them they were well-matched and that their smaller frames would put them at a disadvantage in Standard where the tall and slender dominate with their large strides and voluminous floor presence. It was no place for Yuuri and Yuuko, who didn’t need height to impress, having precise spins, intricate side by side choreography, and sizzling chemistry. There was no doubt that Latin was their rightful domain.

And that’s what Yuuri believed. Even as he spent hours poring over the infamous grey book, memorizing the exact timings, alignments, foot positions, and other details of dance figures for both leader and follower, to pass his teaching exams. Even as he bought his first pair of patent shoes for a studio showcase. Even as his ears perked and his spirit soared more and more often from hearing a foxtrot over a samba, the sounds no longer wistful.

So when he finished crying after binge watching that anime for the fourth time, Yuuri came into the studio with a new sense of resolve. He would return to competition. But this time he would follow his heart and dance Standard. Because what did he have to lose? The previous three attempts to return to competition proved futile, ending in frustration and disappointment as his body could no longer do the things it used to. His rumba walks and cucarachas weren’t as grounded or fluid, the hip action slightly stilted. The jive, sloppy. And worst of all was the paso doble, his dance, the leader’s dance, meant to show his dominance. The technique was all there, but not the character, the spirit. His Latin was broken and his motivation gone with it. It was time for a change, for a clean start with no expectations.

Yuuri smacked his phone at random enough times to stop the buzzing and wiped the remnants of saliva from his mouth with his sleeve. _Oh, yeah, tomorrow is going to hurt,_ he thought with a smile, stumbling out of his bedroom, rubbing the backs of his thighs.

“I left dinner out on the counter for you,” his roommate called out from the bathroom where he was fixing his hair, getting ready to head to the studio for the monthly Saturday night social dance. Yuuri always felt awkward during them and was glad he didn’t have to go this time. Phichit, on the other hand, loved them and the students loved Phichit, like moths attracted to his brilliant light.

“Thanks, Peach.”

“Enjoy your evening alone! And thanks for covering my class tomorrow.”

“No problem.” Yuuri didn’t mind at all. It was a drop-in beginner’s class, usually full of anxious, procrastinating wedding couples hoping for last minute miracles. He could relate to the anxiety and his empathetic approach allowed them to relax enough to waltz, rumba, or foxtrot out of the studio with at least a passable basic and underarm turn after just one class.

But the highlight of the day was going to be the two hours after that—the advanced kids Latin class followed by his favorite private lesson couple. Yuuri was a master technician and the competitive kids soaked it up. He relentlessly drilled the basics, always starting with rumba walks and ending with jive kicks to music just above regulation tempo. They groaned and complained in the moment, especially when he threw in surprise pushups or jumping jacks, but still showed up twice a week just the same.

His private lesson couple, however, was completely different. The collegiate pair was new to competition, with less than six months of experience, eager to learn both Latin and Standard, and Yuuri admired them tremendously. They were the studio’s only same-sex couple, two girlfriends having decided to team up due to a lack of male leaders. This was increasingly more common on the collegiate circuit, but not quite so in sanctioned events, even though it was technically allowed. Their energy and hunger for information left Yuuri invigorated and he often found himself spending a full hour with them instead of the forty-five minutes they paid him for.

After enjoying the thoughtful dinner Phichit left him, Yuuri took the next hour for some deep stretches. He was still far from being back to a full split, but was definitely closer than last week. And right now, every marker of progress was worth celebrating, worth holding on to, so he wouldn’t drown in defeat again like before.

The one thing that kept nagging at him, though, was finding a partner. Sure, it had only been a month, and it can take months, even years, to find a suitable long-term teammate, but each day without a partner was a day without the competition floor. And Yuuri missed it badly. But who would want to dance professionally with a relative beginner like him? Maybe he should consider Latin again, or Ten-dance, where he could at least bring _something_ to the table?

He logged into his dancesportpartner.com account and stared blankly at the two previously read messages he’d received since posting his profile. It took him nearly three hours and Phichit threatening to finish writing the bio for him before he hit that submit button. All that work, and for two messages that clearly weren’t good matches off the bat. One lived nearly 2 hours away—by plane. The other was just too good, too highly ranked. Yuuri could never be a suitable leader to such an experienced follower. What did she even see in him? He agreed to a tryout anyway, and they’d be meeting in a few days. But he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Ever obsessive, he reviewed his profile once again. As he scanned the basics, the most fundamental choice caught his eye. He wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to do it, but he swiftly clicked that extra checkbox and hit Save before he could change his mind.

_I am a:  
[x] Leader  
[x] Follower _

* * *

“Yuuri! Are you all done for the day?” Celestino brightly called out to his top instructor, who stood next to the mirrored wall and sipped his water bottle, having completed two hours of practice after his three hours of teaching.

“For now. What’s up?” Yuuri drew his eyes away from the couples still on the floor to face his boss and coach.

“I have some great news! You’ve been working hard on your Standard. I’m sure you’d appreciate another perspective from my own.”

Yuuri immediately grinned in excitement. “Who’d you get?”

Celestino had great connections and often brought in the top visiting coaches.

“Viktor Nikiforov! In two weeks. He’ll be here for three full days. Two public workshops, the rest private lessons." Celestino clapped Yuuri's back before adding, "Plus the usual for our staff," which meant a discounted rate.

Yuuri’s grin thinned into a tight smile. But a smile, nonetheless, if only for the benefit of others who surely overheard. The ballroom world loved Viktor Nikiforov, the genius leader, always open and friendly with his fans. It’s a wonder Celestino even felt the need to specify Viktor who. The rest of the world was perfectly happy to be on a first name basis when talking about him, even when they’ve never met.

Yuuri, however, could never be on a first name basis with that dancer. Nobody knew because he’d never told anyone, but Yuuri Katsuki hated Viktor Nikiforov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Yuuri's narration is unreliable, I'll point out here that he was actually judging the local competition and not just watching, hence standing with a clipboard. Many local and collegiate comps are unsanctioned and simply get top local Pros as judges. 
> 
> The grey book ( _The Ballroom Technique_ ): an instructional guide first published in the 1940's that contains the technical details of common figures for the Standard dances and serves as the textbook for exams to become a certified instructor
> 
> Cucarachas: A basic stationary figure in rumba with lots of hip rotation
> 
> Styles: In the United States, there are 4 styles of dancesport. For the sake of simplicity, I will only focus on the International styles (Latin and Standard) and ignore the American styles (Rhythm and Smooth). 
> 
> Ten-dance: Competing in both Latin and Standard (all ten dances)
> 
> ***
> 
> Yuuri’s story is roughly my story, though I’m only a hobbyist. I started ballroom dancing with the singular goal of competing in Standard, but for various reasons (including my height), I ended up competing in Latin, on and off for 12ish years. I took a break from competition to teach instead, which I ended up loving. Then I quit dance altogether for grad school, with every intention of coming back the moment I had that shiny piece of paper in hand.
> 
> It didn’t work out. I tried many times over several years to feel like I belonged back in the studio, to no avail. It was too hard emotionally and I had almost given up. Until I watched YOI last winter and then everything suddenly clicked. No joke. I’ve been back in the studio for a year now, finally dancing Standard like I’ve always wanted. I also recently took up figure skating for cross-training because I have a complicated relationship with ballet and we were no longer on speaking terms. 
> 
> I started writing this story in mid-March as a creative outlet in response to COVID-19. I had been working with a new partner for a few months and our first competition together (and my first in Standard) was two weeks away. It got cancelled. The studio was closed, the rink was closed. So I wrote this instead. Thanks for indulging me by reading. Stay well!
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri has a partner tryout that doesn't go as expected.


	2. No Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri has a partner tryout that doesn't go as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Topline: The couple's frame, primarily set by the leader. Includes neck, shoulder, arm, elbow, wrist, and hand positions. Judges can often determine the winning couple by topline alone. 
> 
> Shaping: The change in body shape as the couple moves. Generally the follower has a more extreme shape due to spine stretch and head position.

Perhaps _hate_ was too strong a word. But Yuuri simply didn’t comprehend how such an immensely talented dancer as Viktor Nikiforov couldn’t commit to a partner. So what if his swift ascent to the most prestigious finals had swooning fans calling him future dance royalty? So what if he had a topline to die for and shaping as beautiful as a follower’s? All Yuuri saw was a playboy who changed partners as if they were mere fashion accessories.

But he couldn’t think about someone else’s partner issues right now, not when he had a tryout of his own coming up. With none other than Sara Crispino. She split from her brother, Michele, over six months ago, and while he was quick to find a new partner, she was taking her time. Yuuri respected that, but wondered in self-deprecation what exactly he could offer.

“What do you think she sees in me?” Yuuri quietly asked the dancer sitting next to him as the roommates played Mario Kart, attention firmly glued to the screen.

“Are you stressing about Sara again?” Phichit would roll his eyes if doing so wouldn’t break his concentration. This wasn't the first time they've talked about it, but he couldn't risk scolding Yuuri now that they were practically neck and neck.

“I’m not stressing. I just want to understand.” A power-up in Yuuri's favor did nothing to change his mood. “I’m sure there are tons of men who would relocate here to dance with her. Why would she settle for someone like me?”

Phichit paused the game in exasperation. Enough was enough. While he himself was happy being an instructor and didn’t worry about this kind of nonsense, he knew Yuuri was meant to be a competitor. And for that, he needed to believe in his own value as a partner.

“If you don’t get the whole picture, why don’t you ask her yourself? You know, after you’ve actually danced with her? And she’s showered you with compliments and asked to have your babies?” _Oh, shit._ Phichit wished he could take back those insensitive words the moment they left his mouth.

“Seriously, Peach?”

“Sorry! I’m so sorry, Yuuri. It just slipped out. I didn’t meant it like that. I was trying to say that she’d completely adore your dancing and you as a person, as a partner.”

The heavy sigh from his friend told Phichit it would be a long night. Yuuri’s partnership with Yuuko ended after she became pregnant. They still competed through her first trimester, but it soon became too much, both physically and emotionally. Yuuri had known for a long time that Yuuko would never be interested in him as more than a friend, but the living proof inside her hurt more than he could imagine. And that’s when he packed his bags, wished her and her new fiancé well, and moved half way across the country to start his career as a professional dance instructor, throwing away his registered status as an amateur competitor. He hasn’t been back to his hometown since.

“It’s okay.”

It was not okay. And Phichit knew it. “Why don’t we watch some comp videos?”

“If you're suggesting we spend the evening dissecting my videos to prove a point, don't bother.” Yuuri's only Standard competitions have been with students, and while he gave his best every time he stepped on the floor, regardless of his partner in that moment, none of them have allowed him to dance to his fullest ability.

“Not yours. Hers.”

“Great, that will make me feel less intimidated,” Yuuri snarked in reply. He'd already watched plenty of Sara's competitions, admiring each fluid movement, and thoroughly convinced himself that he didn't deserve to dance with her.

“Ignore her. Watch Michele.”

They both did, intently. Yuuri reluctantly agreed only after his mood lightened thanks to kisses from his good boy, Vicchan. Five videos on repeat and two hours later, he was no longer intimidated, at least not by Michele. But it left them both wondering why Sara stayed with him for so long. While brother/sister pairs were common among Pre-Teens, even Juniors, they rarely continued beyond that, let alone into Professional. She was clearly the stronger dancer in the partnership. And it did not make Yuuri feel any better.

* * *

“Yuuri! You made it!” 

Before he even had a chance to get his bearings, Sara’s cheery voice greeted him as he stepped into the studio on the other side of town. She was willing to come to him, but he insisted, preferring to not make an idiot of himself in front of his own students. He gaped in surprise, feeling silly at not recognizing her without the dramatic competition hair and makeup. She looked much nicer this way. Softer, prettier. Was he really going to do this?

“Uh, hi, Sara. It’s nice to meet you in person. Thanks for having me.” He extended his arm for a handshake, but was startled by the enthusiastic hug he received instead.

“No, no, it’s my pleasure. I’m excited to get started. I booked one of the small studios for us. If we need to move out to the main ballroom to get more floor, we can. But I figured it would be nice to have some privacy to start. Let me show you around.”

Yuuri dumbly followed Sara around the studio, noting how much more modern it was than his own, all the while keeping an eye out for Michele, just in case. Though he wasn't sure in case of what exactly. His perfect host introduced him to other dancers, walked him to the changing rooms, and even brought extra water to their private studio. Yuuri had never experienced a formal partner tryout before, but this was so much better than he imagined. Sara’s easy going nature soothed his nerves, reducing them to nothing but gentle butterflies.

They started with some solo warmups, Yuuri watching Sara from the corner of his eye, willing himself to not stare. Professional curiosity, he rationalized. Maybe she had an exercise that he liked, that he could use. Or maybe it was because she had gorgeous, vivid violet eyes. That he was definitely not looking at. 

“Would you like to start with waltz or foxtrot?” he finally managed. Though he would be happy dancing nothing but foxtrot for the rest of his career, he preferred warming up with waltz.

“Let’s do waltz. Start with boxes, then natural and reverse turns? We’ll figure it out from there,” Sara offered while Yuuri continued twisting his core.

“Sounds great. That’s how I usually start, too.”

“No music,” they both declared in unison before breaking into giggles. Yuuri pretended not to notice Sara’s blush. He was certain he was sporting one of his own.

“Practice hold?” Yuuri prayed for a _yes_ from his place in the center of the room. He feared he would explode from body contact right now. Sara gave a simple nod of agreement and took her own place away from him, her smile warm and bright.

Yuuri took a deep breath, brought his body into position—lengthening his spine, dropping his shoulders, presenting his ribcage—and invited her into his frame. The start of a new dance was always special, especially on the competition floor. He taught all his couples the importance of that initial eye contact, of establishing the emotional connection of the partnership, of reassuring each other that they were in this together. And so, despite his own fluster, he gave that same reassurance to Sara now. She held his gaze up to the last possible moment, until the position no longer allowed it.

The dancer Yuuri now held was exquisite. Even without body contact, he knew everything he needed about her position, balance, and weight in order to effectively lead her. She was even an ideal height match. That first balance step alone was enough for Yuuri to fall in love with dancing with Sara. And everything about the next hour only served to confirm it. Adjusting to a new partner takes time, so they certainly weren’t without their share of mishaps, but they both took them in stride, laughing off the missed leads and under-turns like old friends. Even the gentle butterflies had gone quiet.

By the time they moved to the main ballroom, they were dancing with body contact. Yuuri barely noticed the transition. After a seemingly effortless wing that ended in high fives, he simply raised his palm out to invite Sara into a full frame and she connected without question. But now they were attracting the attention of the other dancers. What would they think of Yuuri? Would they think he was good enough for her? Would they hate him for stealing her away?

The Viennese waltz that came over the speakers halted Yuuri’s thoughts, replacing them with an itch to spin across the floor to that bright and steady rhythm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was their first dance to music, and their first round of applause after Yuuri spun Sara out for a customary bow at the end of the song. Surely the onlookers were clapping for her, not for the two of them as a couple, right?

The flood of memories that followed the clapping reminded Yuuri of the satisfaction of competing, of taking that bow in front of the audience, of holding Yuuko's hand as they walked off the floor, knowing they did it as a team. It reminded him that he wasn't just looking for a strong dancer in a partner, he was looking for a teammate, a friend.

Yuuri collected Sara’s hand to walk back to their private studio, both panting from exertion. Yuuri's stamina had compelled him to dance for the full length of the high-tempo song, three times as long as they'd need to in competition. Sara was beaming the entire time.

“Yuuri! That was so much fun!” There was the hugging again. Yuuri was not a hugger, but maybe he could get used to this.

“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” It _was_ fun. The most fun Yuuri’s had dancing in a long time.

“So what do you think? Should we talk goals, logistics?”

“Before we get to that." He took a deep breath to steel himself from whatever the answer might be. "What’s in this for you? You’re obviously more experienced than me. Won’t I just hold you back?”

Sara shook her head, her eyes alive with joy. “Maybe at first. But I’m not looking for an immediate champion. I’m looking for a good leader, so we can become champions together. I still have a long way to go myself.”

That wasn't what Yuuri expected at all. Did she seriously consider him a good leader? He’d always strived to be one, but would he really be able to deliver? “What about Michele?” 

“Mickey wasn't a good a leader, at least not to me. He couldn’t look at me as anything but his kid sister that he had to protect. I was never an equal in the partnership. And that’s really what I want.” Those stunning eyes turned dark, threatening to spill tears.

“Of course you should be an equal,” Yuuri whispered, showing his support while giving her the space to continue talking.

“The other try-outs I’ve had, I felt like I couldn’t be myself. Like my say wasn’t as important. But I can tell that you respect me, that you listen to what I’m telling you on the floor. When we were weaving around the other couples, you responded to _me_ , you didn’t just expect me to blindly go wherever you led me.”

“I've always thought that was my job. To listen to my partner, to respond to her needs. It can't just be on the follower to listen and respond to the leader. That’s what a partnership is.”

“No, that’s what a partnership should be. I’m learning that’s not what it always is. I thought it was just Mickey.”

They both sat in awkward silence, Yuuri watching his prospective new partner intently as she studied the folded hands in her lap, a single tear traveling down her cheek. He’d never before considered that others didn’t view partnerships the same way he did. Sure, ballroom reeks of sexism in many ways, but Yuuri just assumed they were remnants from the past. After all, they no longer say the man’s or lady’s steps, but rather the leader’s or follower’s. Well, some people say that, anyway.

“I’d like to try to be that leader for you.” _Did I just say that aloud?_ No. This was too much commitment, too soon. He scrambled to recover, to take the pressure off both of them, “But we owe it to ourselves to give this a thorough test run before deciding anything for sure.”

Sara's charming smile returned. She wholeheartedly agreed and Yuuri was once again awestruck by their compatibility. They discussed practical things like practice schedules, teaching schedules, competition schedules, along with goals and coaching preferences. But they enjoyed discussing impractical things like favorite shoe brands, their most embarrassing moments on the floor, and the latest ballgown trends—Yuuri really hated those weird stringy floats—even more.

“I know Viktor Nikiforov is coming to your studio next week. I've already booked a lesson for myself, but we should really take it together, get an evaluation on us as a couple. It will help us decide if we should move forward or not.”

Yuuri deflated. Sara was absolutely right. And ideally they should take two sets of lessons, on separate days, to have an opportunity to practice in between. And here he thought he could get away with just taking the workshops, so he could benefit from the knowledge without having to actually talk to the Russian. But Sara valued Viktor Nikiforov’s opinion, and Yuuri valued Sara.

“Agreed. I know he still has some open spots. Let me call Celestino and see if we can't get a lesson or two in addition to yours. I’m also signed up for both workshops and I’ll need to help out a bit at the studio those days, so we might need to practice either really early or really late. I hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah, we’ll make it work. But why are you taking the workshops? Sure, it’s Viktor, but it’s all going to be foundations that you know.”

“It doesn’t hurt to hear the concepts described another way. It might also help me teach them better to someone else. Besides..." Yuuri hoped he wouldn't sound presumptuous given what they just agreed, but his heart was already made up. "I’ve got you to catch up to.”

The glomp came from nowhere, turning his shy smile into a gasp as it knocked his glasses askew. “Then I’ll join you! That’s what partners do!”

It seemed like her heart was already made up, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Box (box step): The "basic step" in waltz. In air quotes because it's technically not a figure in International style, but I won’t delve into that.
> 
> Natural turn: A turn to the right.
> 
> Reverse turn: A turn to the left.
> 
> Practice hold: A modified hold without body contact.
> 
> Balance step: A side to side weight change in place, often used as a prep step.
> 
> Wing: An advanced figure where the follower steps outside the leader's left side. Usually stepping outside partner is done on the right side. 
> 
> Floats: Draped fabric on the arms of a ballgown to emphasize movement.
> 
> Competitions for Student/Teacher pairs are common in the United States, due to overall lack of partners and other reasons. It's called Pro/Am, and frankly where much of the money in the industry comes from. 
> 
> In Standard, overall height is an advantage, but height match between partners is just as important because of the closed frame and body contact. Height match is inconsequential in Latin.  
> Yuuri: 5'8"  
> Sara: 5'5" (5'7" with heels)  
> Mickey: 5'10"  
> Yuuko: 4'11" (5'1" with heels)
> 
> ***
> 
> Will Sara and Yuuri be more than just partners...?
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor teaches at Yuuri's studio. Yuuri and Sara grow closer.


	3. Hip Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor teaches at Yuuri's studio. Yuuri and Sara grow closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Competition choreography is music-agnostic. Dancers are only guaranteed a regulation tempo, but do not know the exact piece of music they'll dance to until they're already on the floor.

Piercing eyes, their color a brilliant swirl of blues and teals that could be the envy of even the most perfect tropical coast, lit up with hope and excitement as they found their way to Yuuri’s, whose own hid behind blue-rimmed glasses and a veil of tolerance. Why had he agreed to open the studio today? And why the hell was Nikiforov already here, standing outside the entrance? With an extremely cute poodle? And, _oh god_ , why did he have to be so attractive in real life? Stripped of a tail suit and the highly charged atmosphere of a competition, the late morning light hitting his face just so, he looked boyish, eager and it was completely inconsistent with the view Yuuri had of him. This was going to be a very, very long day.

“Viktor! Good morning! Phichit Chulanont. Selfie?” Phichit barreled past Yuuri, wasting no time whipping out his phone to fanboy. Yuuri took the opportunity to unlock the studio’s glass doors and walked right in, not bothering to wait for his friend and the guest teacher. He refused to call the Russian a _coach_.

It was no secret that Viktor Nikiforov came from a well-to-do background and didn’t have to bother with teaching as a source of income to support his competitive lifestyle, like everyone else had to. And it was also no secret that he was currently “between partners”, which meant he was on this west coast teaching tour for one reason only—he was bored. It was an insult to the profession, to the hard work other dancers put in every day, for someone so uncommitted to charge nearly twice as much per lesson as the rest of them. Watching the Russian work Phichit with his easy smile and coquettish hair flip, Yuuri decided with all certainty that, no, _hate_ was not too strong of a word.

The poodle, however, he immediately loved, harboring no ill toward the brown, curly furred creature that bowled him over as she was let through the door and now panted enthusiastically into his face. It certainly wasn’t her fault that her owner was an inconsiderate spoiled brat who assumed he could just bring a _dog_ into a dance studio without asking them in advance. Besides, she looked just like Vicchan. A much, much bigger Vicchan.

“Makkachin! Oh, no, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you up.”

Yuuri reluctantly accepted the outstretched hand, knowing it would be rude to refuse. He certainly would have refused, however, if he knew that hand would come with a sharp pull that had him landing unceremoniously in Nikiforov’s strong arms. Of course they were strong. All dancers had strong arms. But these arms were also gentle, accompanied by a subtle blush across the cheeks of their owner that Yuuri missed in his effort to scramble out of them, his own face red from shame. Or perhaps from excitement. But he would never admit that to himself as he backed a few steps away to a safe distance.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” he began evenly before making the mistake of drawing his eyes up and locking them with the Russian’s. They had no right to be so mesmerizing. Yuuri gulped before he continued, “Thank you for being here. I’m Yuuri Katsuki. Now let’s get you and Makkachin settled in. Please follow me.”

With that, Yuuri turned and walked off toward the teacher’s lounge before hearing the soft reply, “Call me Viktor.”

* * *

Those same piercing blue eyes found their way to Yuuri’s—for a moment longer than was comfortable—as they scanned the group of nearly a hundred dancers in front of them, the most the studio could accommodate. Yuuri and Sara stood toward the back, allowing the less experienced to better see and hear. It was clear Sara was still giddy from their earlier lesson, enchanted by the platinum-haired Russian with his perfect alabaster skin and velvet voice, made all the better by the ass-hugging dance pants he was currently wearing.

Despite Yuuri’s annoyance, their lesson firmly solidified an unexpected respect for the man currently discussing the effects of tempo on the differences in technique between waltz and Viennese waltz. He was certainly a talented dancer— powerful, charismatic, a textbook specimen of eastern European training—but a surprisingly patient teacher, with none of the bark or judgment one might expect from a champion. And that just made it worse. It’s like Nikiforov was somehow above the rules and Yuuri resented that.

Sara took his hand for the rise and fall exercise they were all asked to do, and he immediately gave her his full attention. _His partner._ For the sake of convincing themselves they were being pragmatic, they still told everyone they were in a trial period. Celestino gave his blessing immediately, being the first one they approached for an evaluation. He also offered Sara a teaching position at the studio, which she said she would consider if things went well, admitting it would be best to be apart from Mickey. They planned to make the announcement after this weekend, after their lessons with Viktor Nikiforov, who seemed like he had also already approved.

The Russian was extremely enthusiastic earlier that day and immediately acknowledged their pleasing physical match. It was oddly validating to have him happily prance around them while he made micro adjustments to Yuuri’s topline. As a ballroom dancer, Yuuri had little to no sense of personal space, used to touching and being touched without a second thought. When he danced Latin, he had coaches who practically cupped his buttocks or gripped his pelvis to generate the correct actions, neither party concerned about how others might perceive it. So why did something as minor as having his wrist pulled back, ever so slightly to allow Sara’s arm to stretch, leave him feeling so exposed?

They had worked on foxtrot, not because it was both Yuuri and Sara’s favorite, but because the slow music makes the dance excruciatingly torturous, requiring both profuse control and well-developed musicality. Their homework for the next lesson, in less than 48 hours time, was to wow their guest teacher with a routine using nothing but the five basic figures. With zero room for choreographic creativity, they’d need to shine with their technique. Sara was thrilled with the challenge, and it was certainly one Yuuri also looked forward to tackling. But by the end of the lesson, he was mentally exhausted and relieved to be able to escape for a few moments of quiet time in the men’s room.

The next part of the group workshop was something about sway, but all that kept running through Yuuri’s mind was that earlier moment when Nikiforov first took his wrist. And how much he resisted looking into the blue eyes that were evaluating every inch of his body for possible adjustments, because he was scared of what would happen if he did. 

He blinked back to the present in time to see the Russian demonstrate a follower’s poise and couldn't help but trace the curve of his spine, down the strong legs and to the toes. By all objective measures, it was absolutely gorgeous. Yuuri licked his lips, his mouth having suddenly run dry. No. This wasn't happening. He closed his eyes and gulped. Not now. _No, no, no._ It couldn't be. He opened his eyes to a perfect example of the follower's head and neck position, elongated and exposed. He chided himself for thinking what he might do to that neck. How? How was it possible for Yuuri Katsuki to be attracted to _him_? To be more than attracted?

Before he knew it, the workshop was over, the dancers had all gotten their selfies, and Yuuri found himself tidying up and prepping the studio for tomorrow, with Sara’s help. Celestino treated the guest teacher to dinner and Phichit uncharacteristically didn’t wait for Yuuri to go back to the apartment. They were the only ones left.

“Would you like to go out for a bite? I know it’s late—“

“Yes.” Anything for Yuuri to get his mind off Nikiforov and this bothersome crush.

Dinner to turned into drinks. The conversation flowed easily between them, neither ready to call it a night. One of them, it's hard to remember who, had the brilliant idea of going to a nearby Salsa club, where Yuuri put his years of Latin hip action to proper use until both their bodies glistened with sweat, having long forgone the mere three points of contact of a ballroom frame. By his fifth drink, Yuuri no longer cared about how sore or hung over he might be the next day, determined to thoroughly enjoy himself in the company of his beautiful partner.

He was beyond horrified when he woke up the next morning to Sara in his bed and a text with a winking emoji from Phichit. How could he be so stupid, so careless, to basically throw away a partnership and a potential friendship, and for what? A night out? Was all that talk about being a good leader for nothing? He hoped to god whatever they did was at least consensual.

"Yuuri?" The sweet voice calling his name reminded him to breathe, and he reluctantly turned to face her, his face pale with worry, ready to plead for forgiveness and say goodbye to those intense violet eyes forever.

"Aren't you going to at least kiss me good morning? I expect to be treated like a lady." There was a light tease in her voice as she rolled to her side, her dark hair tumbling down her back, the drape of the sheet tracing her curves. 

Clearly last night was consensual. But what now? Drunk Yuuri and regular, plain Yuuri were different people. He couldn’t just continue on like this, could he?

By the time they were dressed and ready to start the day, they agreed on two things. One, they would need to skip the second workshop that morning. And two, they would never let this happen again.

The best time to practice ended up being in the evening, as Yuuri predicted, after the studio was closed, their obligations for the day complete. Their first hour was spent on feather steps. The second was spent in the teacher’s lounge, with their tongues doing the dancing and hands familiarizing themselves with each other’s bodies in a way that no hours of practice could. Who needed Viktor Nikiforov when Yuuri had a goddess right here? The remaining two hours were the most productive, both having gotten their amorous energy out of their systems enough to truly focus. By midnight, they were happy with their progress and called it a night, going home to separate beds.

* * *

“Yuuri, Sara, good morning!” Nikiforov greeted, making unnecessary eye contact that had Yuuri quick to look away. “Ready to show me your foxtrot?”

They barely danced three walls before the Russian stopped them by cutting the music and exclaiming, “Wow! Amazing!” loud enough for the entire studio to hear.

They stood in place, sharing a smile, as he walked over to deliver the rest of the feedback at a, hopefully, more appropriate volume.

“That was a huge improvement from two days ago. The topline still has a ways to go, but it’s already a noticeable difference. I know it’s a new partnership, but I’m surprised at how much better you’ve gotten at reading each other in such a short time. Sara’s not hesitating anymore. Both your strides are longer and more controlled. You’re filling out the time on the slows very nicely, like we talked about. Whatever you did to practice, keep doing it.”

Yuuri and Sara both looked at each other with wide eyes and beet-red faces and Yuuri nearly fled the studio when she replied for both of them, “Yes, we plan to.”

“Good! Now let’s see if we can’t get you some suitable choreography.” He winked. Viktor Nikiforov winked. At them. Like he knew exactly what kind of _practice_ they’ve been having.

By the end of the lesson, even Yuuri had to admit that Nikiforov was a genius. The routine he gave them was stunning, a perfect balance of rotating and traveling figures with unique shaping and interesting picture-lines, and just out of reach for their current skill level. They would have to work hard for it, which made it all the more exciting.

In the remaining minutes, Yuuri recorded the Russian dancing the full routine with Sara so they would have a reference for later. As he followed the two across the floor with his phone, a ridiculous, unfounded jealousy overwhelmed him, making a home in the pit of his stomach. Sure, they looked good together. Hell, _anyone_ would look good dancing with Nikiforov. But Sara was _Yuuri’s_ partner, so what did he have to be jealous about? That she would run off and dance with someone else? That he wasn’t at that level yet? That he desperately wanted to be?

The answer came nearly two weeks later when Yuuri received an automated email notification from dancesportpartner.com. Viktor Nikiforov had favorited his profile. Yuuri nearly tore out his hair at the realization, the groan of frustration enough to startle Vicchan along with Phichit's hamsters—he wasn’t jealous of Nikiforov and his superior dancing. He was jealous of _Sara_ , of his own partner, for having been the one in the Russian’s arms.

He promptly deactivated his account.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viennese waltz is twice as fast as waltz and has simpler figures and different technique accommodate the faster tempo. 
> 
> Rise and fall: Rising through the leg and on to the toe, then lowering back down into the knee over the course of several steps or weight changes. All Standard dances except tango have rise and fall.
> 
> Sway: The tilt of the body during a turn or a turning action.
> 
> Feather step: The foundational figure in foxtrot. It has many variations and is deceptively difficult.
> 
> Wall: A side of the dance floor. The floor is a rectangle with two short sides and two long sides. The sides are called walls, even if there are no physical walls there. Dances travel counterclockwise along the walls. Certain figures can only be done in a corner but not along the wall and vice versa. 
> 
> Slow: Two beats of music, as opposed to Quick which is one beat. Some dances are counted in numbers while others in slows and quicks. For example: SQQS is 4 steps over 6 beats of music while 234&1 is 5 steps over 4 beats of music.
> 
> Picture-lines: Advanced figures that are "photogenic", meant to grab attention and look pretty
> 
> An unfairly large proportion of the top dancesport athletes in the United States are eastern European. My first 6ish years were spent under teachers like Lilia Baranovskaya. For a kid whose only goal was to be good enough to wear a competition dress, it was quite damaging and I often came home from private lessons in tears.
> 
> ***
> 
> Come at me with pitchforks for Yuuri/Sara. I’m ready.
> 
> Next chapter: Yakov asks Viktor to consider a new partner. Viktor has other ideas.


	4. Tail Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yakov asks Viktor to consider a new partner. Viktor has other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Professional competitors must be at least 16 years old.
> 
> Pro/Am: A division where an amateur dancer competes with their professional teacher as a partner. Only the amateur dancer of the couple is judged.

“You should have stuck to figure skating.”

Viktor dismissed his coach with a wave of the hand as he checked the suede on the bottom of his shoe for debris. Finding it satisfactory, he returned to his solo exercises. Viktor has spent so much of his competitive career alone that he’d never fallen into the trap of relying too heavily on partnered practice. Even if he preferred it.

“Delay the standing foot even more,” the coach ordered and, for once, Viktor listened and adjusted accordingly for the remainder of the wall. “Good. Again.”

Should he have stuck to figure skating? It certainly would have made things easier, not having to rely on someone else for his success. He supposed pairs and ice dancers have the same problem he now faced, but he himself had always been a singles skater. A damn good one, too. Yet the moment he walked into a ballroom studio for the first time—supplementary training for one of his programs—the ice stopped calling to him. She no longer pulled him in with her charms, tempting him back to her. He had found a new love, one more complicated than he could imagine. But there was no going back.

The floor proved gentler than the ice. Warmer, too. But just as demanding. Whatever burdens were lifted from his ankles were in turn granted to the toes, and his feet bled from overuse just the same. It was so different from ballet, yet felt familiar. Viktor thrived from the increased freedom of movement from abandoning his skates, the constant tactile contact, and the naive romanic notion that his some-day future dance partner would also be his best friend and lover. That day had yet to come.

It was easy enough to find his first partner. He had his pick of talented teenage girls eager to dance with a pretty boy like him. Letting go of his ethereal, waist-length hair, however, proved more difficult and was accompanied by painful heartbreak as he came to terms with reality. In an attempt at compromise, he limited his early competitions to Latin where he could at least keep a short low ponytail without getting sour looks from the judges. But that didn’t last long; he loved Standard through and through. The music, the movement made him feel strong and beautiful. And if he had to fit a certain masculine mold to win, then he was willing to do it. Luckily, he found things about that mold he enjoyed.

The excitement of getting fitted for his first tail suit was still vivid in Viktor’s mind. He was so happy, so excited then. It meant he was finally going to be a _real_ competitor. He didn’t understand then the disappointment that would later come with learning more about who he was. Because, today, he had an entire collection of tail suits, each adorned with a logo that advertised the sponsor of his tails along with the gown of the follower he happened to compete with at the time. And yet he still held on to the hope that, perhaps some day, he would find the true partner he craved, and that this true partner would wear a matching tail suit rather than a ballgown.

“Vitya? Are you even listening? If you’re not going to focus, then get off the floor. I don’t need you building bad muscle memory.” Yakov stood with his arms crossed, looking ready to drag Viktor off by the back of his shirt.

“Oh, sorry, I got lost in my thoughts.”

“This is entirely your own fault, you know. You’ve turned down three tryouts already. Do you want to compete or not?! Get your head out of your ass! This is a team sport. No partner, no dancing.”

Viktor sighed deeply. Yes, he knew very well that dance was a team sport. He was constantly reminded of that at the start of each partnership. But he didn’t want just a teammate. He never has. Not then and certainly not now when the possibility of more finally existed. He wasn’t ready to resign himself, to push away his dreams yet again. But he played the game to appease his coach. He was too tired to fight today. “Who do you suggest?”

“Mila Babicheva.”

“You can’t be serious. She’s nearly ten years younger than me. And still amateur.” Of all possible suggestions, Viktor certainly didn’t expect that one. Perhaps this was Yakov’s punishment for his years of stubbornness.

“She intends to go professional eventually and will do so immediately for the right partner. What better partner to debut with than you?" He paused, gauging Victor's reaction before continuing, "We both know Georgi can only take her so far in Pro/Am. She's ready." 

With his student still unconvinced, Yakov pulled out the big guns. "Think about it this way. Your past partners have tried to shape you into something you aren’t, and that was a huge part of the reason they didn’t work out. Mila is immensely talented, but relatively inexperienced. She has no expectations. You can be yourself with her.”

Be himself, huh? Viktor couldn’t help but think about that couple he recently met in California, Yuuri and Sara. They’d only started working together and already had amazing chemistry, beyond what Viktor had seen in most couples and certainly more than he had ever experienced himself. And if he wasn’t going to get something like that, then perhaps just getting to be himself was the best he could ask for.

“Alright, I’ll think about it.”

* * *

“Makkachin, do you think I should dance with Mila?” Viktor asked his poodle as if he genuinely expected an answer. Of course he did. He had nobody else to ask.

“Boof!”

Finding her reply unhelpful, he pulled up dancesportpartner.com in a final plea to the universe for an alternative. While Yakov preferred to make partner introductions in person, a little virtual perusing on his own wouldn’t hurt. The realities of competing at a high level—the training, the constant travel—left few opportunities for a personal life outside the ballroom. He hated it and yearned to be one of those couples who were also couples off the floor.

In the past, Viktor had often thought about joining the same-sex circuit, but the talent pool was so shallow, it would be career suicide. But then, last year, seemingly out of nowhere, the NDCA passed a rule change defining a couple as a leader and a follower regardless of gender. When Viktor first heard about it, he thought it was a cruel prank. It took him two days to gather the courage to read the announcement himself. But there it was, real, casually tucked into the sidebar of the home page under News. He cried tears of disbelief, joy, hope, and pride, hugged Makkachin, then proceeded to cry some more.

So now, Viktor freely searched for male followers, from anywhere in the country, just because he could. He knew there weren’t many, especially at a decently high level, and certainly none he knew personally. But it never hurt to look. Maybe he’d be surprised.

The sound that escaped his mouth was something between a gasp and a yelp, and his companion let out a whine of her own in concern. He absently scratched behind the poodle’s floppy ears while he tried to comprehend why Yuuri Katsuki’s profile now sat at the top of his results. 

That talented, adorable leader who landed so perfectly in his arms that first morning was also a follower? And a former Latin competitor? Viktor hung to each word of the bio, studied every photo, watched each video on repeat a dozen times. Yuuri looked incredibly hot done up for Latin, with hair slicked back and a deep cut rhinestoned shirt exposing his tanned chest. And if Viktor’s tongue darted out to wet his lips while tracing said open chest with his eyes, then nobody except Makkachin was there to see it. How was this possible?

Viktor resisted the urge to message Yuuri on the spot. He knew logically that Yuuri simply hadn’t taken down his profile yet. He and Sara themselves told Viktor they were waiting to make it official. Heaven knows why. Those two were going to shoot up into the finals of all the major competitions and begin taking the international circuit. Maybe not this year, but certainly next year. He’d bet money on it.

He favorited the profile anyway, just in case. He needed the hope. And maybe the mental image.

* * *

As it turned out, Viktor liked dancing with Mila. A lot. Having spent the last few years in the same studio, Viktor wasn’t some mythical creature to her but more like an awkward big brother. So unlike his previous partners, she wasn’t enamored with his dashing looks and winning smile, nor with his technique and musicality. Combined with her spunk, it meant she wasn’t afraid to call Viktor out when he was being a goof or when she received a lead she didn’t like.

In short, Mila was a breath of fresh air. Maybe she didn’t challenge Viktor technically—at least not yet—but she revitalized his spirit and brought joy back into his dancing, joy that he had lost after countless failed partnerships before. He loved seeing the ballroom world through her young eyes, still innocent of the sexism, politics, and incestuous practices in the industry. He wanted to look after her. He wanted her to be his friend.

Changing status from amateur to professional is a big move, especially for someone barely old enough to be eligible. Viktor wasn’t going to push Mila into that choice, even if he himself was the prize, and they agreed on a studio showcase to test the waters. She wanted tango because it was an easy crowd pleaser and if they planned right, they could reuse the choreography for competition. He offered a waltz/quickstep medley because it would surprise the audience, showcases being those rare opportunities to choreograph to one’s own choice of music. To his delight, she liked his idea, impractical as it was.

A few short weeks later, they had a firmly established practice schedule. Viktor would pick up Mila after school every day and drive her home on the nights they stayed late. She first resisted the offer, stubbornly insisting she could take care of herself, but Viktor managed to win her over by pointing out they could get in an extra practice time if she let him drive her.

“We’re ready for tomorrow,” Viktor felt the need to reassure her while they did a final set of stretches at the end of the night.

“Oh, I know! And I don’t just mean our routine.” Mila feverishly rummaged through her dance bag before finding what she was looking for, beaming brighter than Viktor had ever seen when she presented it to him. Her NCDA membership card. 

_Status: Professional_

“Congratulations, partner.” He hugged her, genuinely happy. She was good for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not uncommon for dancesport athletes to have serious experience in another sport or dance style prior to ballroom.
> 
> Costumes are not allowed at the lower levels, so getting fitted for a tail suit for the first time is a very big deal. 
> 
> Quality, custom designer ballgowns are very expensive (thousands of dollars). The top couples are sponsored for shoes and costumes, among other things. Lower cost options do exist for the rest of us, with rhinestones being one of the biggest cost factors. Swarovski are the most expensive.
> 
> The implication here is that Mila is a top Pro/Am competitor with Georgi as her professional partner but with little "real partnership" experience. 
> 
> NDCA (National Dance Council of America): The governing body for dancesport in the United States, primarily representing professional interests. There is a separate governing body that represents amateur interests. They don't like each other. It's a hot mess. 
> 
> I basically had the same reaction as Viktor to the rule change, but for a different reason. It represents a huge win for female instructors, though I won't go into details because it's not relevant to this story. This was the actual announcement in its full side-bar glory:  
>  **Change to NDCA rule II.A.6.a.**  
>  Posted by NDCA Ballroom Department  
> 9/14/2019 9:09 AM  
>  _The National Dance Council of America ("NDCA") announces that, as of September 23, 2019, a "couple" will be defined in Section II.A.6.a of the NDCA's Rules & Regulations as a leader and follower without regard to the sex or gender of the dancer. Accordingly, beginning on September 23, 2019, same-sex/gender neutral couples will be able to compete with opposite-sex couples in all dance genres included in championships, competitions, and events sanctioned by the NDCA._  
>   
> Viktor: 5'11"  
> Mila: 5’6” (5’8” with heels) 
> 
> ***
> 
> I caved and started up barre because it’s the easiest thing to do at home right now. So I guess that means ballet and I are on speaking terms again.
> 
> *** 
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri finally gets to compete in Standard like he's always wanted.


	5. Warm Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri finally gets to compete in Standard like he's always wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Event: “What you’re competing in.” Based on divisions such as status, style, age group, and proficiency level. A single competition has hundreds of events. 
> 
> Heat: “When you’re competing.” Dance competitions are run in heats, similar to other sports like swimming. A heat is the group of dancers competing against each other at a given time. There are usually between 6 to 12 couples on the floor at a time and are judged simultaneously against each other.

The studio wasn’t fancy or modern. The hardwood floors weren’t even that great despite all that effort Celestino put into refinishing them last year—the regulars all knew which areas to avoid if they wanted to preserve the satin of their competition shoes. But it didn’t matter. The studio was home. And since finding Sara, walking through that door, taking in that first view of the front desk with a glimpse of the ballroom just beyond it, was the best feeling in the world, one Yuuri got to experience nearly every day. It’s not that he dreaded going into the studio before, but his love for dance had dimmed after Yuuko, flickering in the wind of his emotions. Now it was bright and unwavering.

“Yuuri! Can I borrow you for a sec?” Phichit bounced up to his friend like an eager puppy the moment he spotted him walking from the changing rooms to the floor. His student, Ketty, awkwardly stood to the side, feeling bad for disturbing another instructor despite Phichit’s reassurances that it was totally fine.

“Sure. What are we doing?” Yuuri easily agreed and stepped into Phichit’s practice hold without waiting for the reply. Requests for demonstrations from other instructors always made him feel a silly combination of flattered and embarrassed, and he secretly loved it. 

“Feather into reverse.”

They danced the two figures as Ketty keenly watched Yuuri. He was demonstrating her part, after all.

“Did you see how he waited for my lead to rise after the heel turn?” She nodded. “And how nice and smooth that looked?” More nodding.

Turning to Yuuri, Phichit requested, “Can you do that again but rise without waiting for me?” Yuuri allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk up, understanding the point Phichit was making for his student. The result was exactly the mess they both knew it was going to be.

“So that time was how you’re doing it. Did you see how we both got pulled off balance?”

Her face soured. “Let me try it again.”

Phichit patted Yuuri’s shoulder in thanks. “You’re almost as good as Sara.”

Yuuri took that as a high compliment. Sure, all instructors and top competitors were fluent in both roles to an extent, but Yuuri had taken extra care in learning to follow. He respected the immense responsibility of the role and firmly believed it made him a better leader. And now that Sara left her studio to come here, they had more opportunities to practice and spent more time on role reversal than they otherwise would have.

* * *

Yuuri smirked when he finally locked eyes with Sara while waiting in the on-deck area, their upcoming event two heats away. His definitely not girlfriend looked stunning, her gown a dazzling black and white sprayed with flashing yellow rhinestones, a matching hair accessory framing her perfectly shaped bun.

“You’re going down, Katsuki,” she teased before looking away and smiling warmly at the distinguished older man at her side.

“So. What does the winner get?” A familiar voice wondered aloud with a little too much insinuation. Yuuri threw a pleading look to his friend to keep quiet as his face glowed in embarrassment. He’d forgotten Phichit’s student was also in this event.

“Phichit, Ketty, good luck to you,” Yuuri somehow managed to keep from stuttering as he offered his hand, keeping the other firmly on his own student’s back. Maybe he was projecting that she needed it. But he still remembered the jitters of his early competition days, of how he clutched Yuuko’s hand and looked to her for reassurance. And he’ll be damned if he lets any one of his students now feel like she is alone.

Phichit’s dumb grin remained plastered to his face as he shook Yuuri’s hand and wished his friend luck in return. In a true act of heroism, he had patiently waited a full two months before he confronted Yuuri about his relationship with Sara. He finally broke the third time he saw her wander out of Yuuri’s bedroom in the morning acting like nothing happened and point blank asked if they were dating. To his astonishment, all he got was, _No comment._ Who would have thought that shy, anxious Yuuri Katsuki would be in a friends with benefits relationship with his gorgeous dance partner? Phichit was extremely proud.

The on-deck captain saved Yuuri from further indignity when she called out for numbers. The leaders promptly turned their backs toward the woman with the tablet so she could mark them present for the next heat. That complete, they lined up, waiting for the cue to take their places on the floor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have Heat 317. This is the Pro/Am Silver International Standard Scholarship. We have a six couple final. This is a three-dance event. Your first dance is waltz. Music, please.”

Yuuri presented his frame to his student and met her eyes, inviting her in, as the first notes played over the speakers. He loved this part, hearing the song for the first time, finding the beat, feeling the music flow through him and passing that energy to his partner. The more advanced his student, the bigger risks he could take, breaking away from the routine and improvising, relying on pure lead and follow to take advantage of the musical highlights and his masterful floor craft. He knew he could not do that now, however. That would have to wait until tonight. Until he danced with Sara. 

Six minutes later, the event was over and the couples lined up to hear the results. Sara’s student had won. She herself won a foot massage from Yuuri, which she planned to cash in at the end of the weekend. There was still more dancing ahead of them.

But for now, it was time to rest. They were both done with Pro/Am events for the day and had a few hours to eat and relax before their own event tonight, the Open Professional Standard, their first as a couple. It was finally happening. Yuuri was finally going to compete in Standard, not for a student, but for himself. With an incredible partner who believed in him from their first meeting. He wasn’t about to let her down. He wasn’t about to let the world think she wasted her time on him. Yuuri was ready.

With his protective hand on Sara's back, they wound their way from the hotel's grand ballroom to the elevator bay, Sara keenly aware of the disapproving glare trailing them. She smiled up at Yuuri, appreciating her partner, while they waited. And when she caught the familiar shape from the corner of her eye, she spun around to confront the stalker.

“Mickey! What are you doing?”

Sara’s brother mumbled a few words under his breath, refusing to look either of them in the eye, hands clenched as his sides. An uncomfortable tension had all three frozen in place, broken only by the chime of the elevator announcing its arrival. With a pained expression, Michele eventually blurted, “Good luck tonight,” and promptly turned away.

Yuuri and Sara faced each other with identical expressions of confusion and relief. Five months they had been dancing together. Five months! And this was the first time Michele had so much as acknowledged Yuuri. As they walked into the open elevator doors, eyes twinkling, they knew they both had the same thought. _They would decimate Michele and his partner tonight._

* * *

They chose to debut at a small competition on purpose, a dry run for the much larger competition they would attend in two weeks. It was so small, in fact, that there was only one Professional Standard event and with only five couples. A straight final. That meant no warm-up round. Just one shot to give it their best. In less than one hour.

Yuuri smiled in bliss while Sara fussed with pinning his number to his back. He was surprised at how much he missed that small ritual that all couples do. Just something about that act has always screamed, _I’m here to take care of you, too._ It was hope and trust and a hundred deep breaths all concentrated into a seemingly insignificant moment of fumbling with a piece of paper and some pins. But it brought the couple together. And it was exactly what Yuuri needed.

For this evening’s event, Sara was breathtaking in a deep navy gown, the entirely open back covered in matching navy mesh, sparking rhinestones in all shades of blues, purples, and teals forming an elegant vine down her spine before blending seamlessly into the gown at her lower back where Yuuri’s eyes may have lingered longer than appropriate had they not been in private. While the intent of a ballgown is to capture the judges’ attention, this gown in particular was perhaps a bit too distracting to her own partner. She pecked Yuuri’s cheek before they left their hotel room, delighted that he clearly approved of how she looked.

They agreed after that first unintended night together that it would never happen again, but quickly learned it wasn’t that easy. They were both single, attractive, and _attracted_ to each other. And so they changed their agreement to one of convenience. They would be dance partners first and whatever else second. And always behind closed doors. In many ways, it was a relief. There were far too many couples whose professional partnerships were ruined by their personal relationships and vice versa. So if he was to be involved with his partner, Yuuri preferred it to be like this.

* * *

Three couples stood facing the audience, perfectly lined up with the followers just slightly offset in front of their leaders. Two couples remained on the floor, awaiting their results. In the typical show of sportsmanship, the gentlemen shook hands while the ladies kissed cheeks, both couples congratulating each other for whatever the outcome might be, Michele stoic during the exchanges. Yuuri forced himself to not get his hopes up. It was only their first competition together.

“In second place...” The emcee loved to drag out the results. “From California...” The audience chuckled. Both couples were from California. “Placing second in waltz, first in tango, second in Viennese waltz, second in foxtrot, and second in quickstep, couple 126...”

All Yuuri could hear was his pounding heart. They weren’t couple 126. They weren’t couple 126! A timid smile managed to find its way to his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your winners in the Open Professional Standard, placing first in waltz, second in tango, first in Viennese waltz, first in foxtrot, and first in quickstep, from California, couple 143, Yuuri Katsuki and Sara Crispino!”

Yuuri held back his tears as they spun their spins, bowed their bows, and walked to shake hands and kiss cheeks with the other couples before taking their place at the far end of the line, next to Michele who was too busy scowling to enjoy his second place finish. He’d done it. He competed at his first Standard competition. And won first. Looking out to the audience, he soaked in this long-anticipated moment. It was everything he wanted it to be—the bright lights, the applause, the elegant partner at his side who made it all possible. His childhood dream had finally come true. And it tasted just as good as katsudon.

The high was enough to carry him through the next day of Pro/Am competition with his students. Sara didn’t have any events and sat in the ballroom appreciating her partner and his Cuban breaks. Maybe they should try Ten-dance? She’s always loved Latin, but found it strange and uncomfortable to dance in such an overtly sexual way with Mickey. But with Yuuri, well, maybe they could bring some of their passion from the bedroom onto the floor.

But any talks of Latin would have to wait. With Embassy coming up in two weeks, they needed to focus as many hours into practice as possible. They were even planning to hit the studio tonight after their two hour drive back.

A squeal from the back of the car had Sara turning around in concern. Yuuri, at the wheel, wasn’t phased in the slightest.

“Omigod! The rumors are true! Viktor has a new partner! The heat lists for Embassy just went up and he’ll be there.” 

“Who is she?” Sara lit up, just as excited as Phichit.

“I’ve never heard of her before. Mila Babicheva. Gimme a sec.” The occupants of the car waited while Phichit's fingers did their magic across the phone's screen, Yuuri’s stomach already turning at thought of dancing in the same event as _him_.

“Got it. She’s still only 16 and just turned pro to dance with him. She’s been at his studio for a while, though. Wow, she must be crazy good for him to basically hand pick her.”

Yuuri gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, livid on that poor girl’s behalf. How could Nikiforov be so selfish and irresponsible, convincing his partner to turn pro at such a young age? Yes, in some cases it made sense, if the couple had been together a while and there’s a big age gap in the partners. But not like this, not if he’s just going to split from her in a year. She’s unlikely to find a new pro partner at just 17 or 18. And it could take years to petition to reinstate her amateur status, during which time she won’t be able to compete at all. _What were you thinking? You just killed this young woman’s career._

“Oh, and looks like they’re using Embassy as their warm up before Nationals.”

Viktor and Mila chose Embassy as a warm up for Nationals? Talk about making a debut. Yuuri and Sara weren’t even going to Nationals, knowing they had nothing yet to prove. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feather into reverse: A basic combination in foxtrot
> 
> Scholarship: An Amateur or Pro/Am event where the winner receives a monetary prize.
> 
> Silver: The third of the amateur proficiency levels. The full list is: Pre-Bronze, Bronze, Silver, Gold, Novice, Pre-Championship, Championship. The last 3 are advanced and have no choreography restrictions. 
> 
> Floor craft: The leader’s ability to navigate around the floor and not bump into the other couples.
> 
> Round: A preliminary elimination round, such as a quarter final or semi final. A final is generally six couples, sometimes seven. 
> 
> Professional divisions: There are two “tiers” in professional competition: Rising Star and Open. Rising Star is restricted to lower-ranked couples, while Open is open to all. This is a small competition and only offers the Open event.
> 
> Cuban breaks: A type of leg action that's popular in side-by-side choreography in cha cha. 
> 
> Heat list: The list of all heats including their events, competitors, and times.
> 
> Embassy: Embassy Ballroom Championships in Irvine, California. Early September.
> 
> Nationals: National Professional Championships take place at United States Dance Championships (USDC) in Orlando, Florida the week after Embassy.
> 
> The competition in this chapter is completely fictional. 
> 
> ***  
> Next chapter: Viktor looks forward to seeing Yuuri again and learning more about him.


	6. Disappointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor looks forward to seeing Yuuri again and learning more about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to InLoveWithYOI for believing in this story.
> 
> ***
> 
> There are two “tiers” in professional competition: Rising Star and Open. Rising Star is restricted to lower-ranked couples that haven’t placed out, while Open is open to all.
> 
> Dancers do not know the exact piece of music they'll dance to until they're already on the floor. They are only guaranteed a regulation tempo. That means competition choreography is music-agnostic and dancers practice to a variety of songs in preparation.
> 
> Floor craft: The leader’s ability to navigate around the floor and not bump into the other couples.
> 
> Top Teacher: A substantial cash prize awarded to Pro/Am instructors with the most student entries and highest placements.

Viktor had a very good, legitimate reason for getting here on Thursday when their event wasn’t until Saturday, one that had nothing to do with travel logistics but rather with a certain Yuuri Katsuki and Sara Crispino who were competing tonight. Viktor just had to see them dance again. And by them, he meant Yuuri, who was presently in the on-deck area looking elegant and refined, regal even. For as tantalizing as Yuuri looked in a Latin shirt, Viktor preferred him in tails, smitten by his look of determination.

“Do you really think any of these Rising Star couples will be competition for us in the Open?” Mila mused, wearing an elegant evening gown that made her look more mature than her nearly seventeen years, a brilliant bib-style crystal necklace adorning her neck.

“287. No question.”

“Do you know them?”

“I choreographed their foxtrot. They started working together shortly before we did.”

Mila followed Viktor’s intense line of sight from their front-row table to the on-deck area and the couple in question, wondering what was so special about them. She smirked at the realization. “You like him.”

“He’s a beautiful dancer.” Viktor would allow himself no more than that. So what if he liked him? He barely even knew him. Their interactions during the time he taught the pair were awkward at best, as if Yuuri were avoiding him for some reason, and after he looked so adorable with Makkachin, too. It had honestly hurt. Viktor was used to being well-liked, having spent his entire dance career refining his image to be as charming as possible. 

But Yuuri was different.

That much was clear from his profile on dancesportpartner.com where his bio focused much more on what he was looking for in a partner rather than talking about himself and his own achievements. Which were highly impressive once Viktor managed to dig them up. By the time Yuuri and his last partner split, they were a top Latin couple in the Under 21 division and had just started representing the United States at international competitions. Yuuri could have found a new partner in a heartbeat. So why did he choose to uproot himself and become a teaching professional rather than continue competing? And why did he choose Standard now?

“I like her dress. I wonder who the designer is. I don’t see a sponsor.”

“They probably don’t have any yet.”

And with that, the event began. A semi-final with ten couples. Six would be recalled. Viktor watched 287 intently, and especially so in the foxtrot. It was superb. He admired the subtle changes they made to his choreography. That is, until he saw them dance it again in the final where the changes were no longer subtle. Amused, Viktor sat back and smiled coyly, crossing his legs while reclining in his chair and tilted his head in way that would make any woman in the audience who took her eyes off the floor swoon for him. He was right about Yuuri and Sara. They would put up quite a fight come Saturday night, that was certain. And he couldn’t wait.

“That wasn’t my routine, by the way,” he whispered in Mila’s ear as the couples found their places for their final dance, and grinned in reply to her raised eyebrow.

Yuuri had improvised, sacrificed the safety of a routine for musicality. And Sara responded beautifully. It felt like they were creating the music with their bodies, expertly predicting the song's highlights, artfully matching their choreography to the DJ's selection. Few couples were bold enough to dance pure lead and follow on the competition floor. No wonder they won with first place in all dances.

* * *

The warmth of soft lips on his mouth stirred Viktor from his restless sleep and welcomed him back to the competition weekend.

“Good morning, _mon cher_. Feel free to stay as long you like, but I need to get ready. Some of us do have to dance today,” the blonde explained as he stroked Viktor’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Unless you’d like to go another round first?”

“Are you sure that won’t keep you from winning Top Teacher if we do?” Viktor smirked, grateful for his friend's company.

“Oh, I can definitely be the _top_ teacher right now,” Chris winked. Viktor had really walked into that one. Happily. 

Another romp with Chris meant another moment he didn’t have to think about Yuuri Katsuki and the crushing disappointment he felt last night when he was ignored. All he wanted was to congratulate Yuuri and Sara on their well-deserved win and introduce them to Mila, who needed to start building connections among the professionals, and maybe get to know Yuuri a little bit more. At least part of that went to plan. 

The winning couple had quickly engaged the young red head and Sara eventually whisked her away to introduce her to the local dancers, leaving the men behind. Viktor was about to ask Yuuri to join him for a drink but got his reply before even getting the chance. Yuuri had curtly bid him goodnight and walked off, mumbling something about needing to get rest. Viktor knew Yuuri didn’t have Pro/Am events on Friday. He checked the heat lists.

Eventually Viktor bid Chris a good day and stumbled back to his shared suite where Mila was still sleeping in her bed on the far end of the bedroom, his own untouched. Not to disturb her, he laid out on the living room couch instead, eyes to the ceiling, and wondered why Yuuri wouldn’t talk to him. Was it something he did? Didn’t do? Yuuri seemed perfectly friendly with everyone else. And it was driving Viktor mad. He couldn’t get the utterly ravishing image of Yuuri in a tail suit out of his mind, of matching tail suits. Maybe Viktor had come on too strong. Maybe Yuuri was taken. _Oh, my god!_ Yuuri and Sara were together. That had to be it! It was the only reason that made sense.

Viktor’s groan of realization and subsequent disappointment coincided with Mila’s emergence from the bedroom. She lazily walked over and stretched her arms over her head before turning her mischievous eyes on her partner.

“Did you have a fun adventure last night?”

“I did. But not with the person I wanted.” 

Despite their age difference, Viktor had no interest in treating Mila like a child. He ended up taking Yakov’s advice to heart and let a partner see his real self for the first time in his life. And she accepted him. Aside from Chris, whom he only saw at competitions a few times a year, she was his only friend. Human friend, that is. Makkachin was without a doubt his _best_ friend.

“It’s really too bad. I thought you looked good together.”

“He wouldn’t even talk to me. I think he’s with someone.”

“Nope. I asked Sara. She said he was unattached.”

“Really? What else did she say?” _Hope!_ There was still hope!

“Just that he’s a wonderful partner that treats her well…” Viktor nodded feverishly in approval, eyes starting to twinkle. “And that they’re both too focused on competing for relationships.”

He felt the jagged edges of shattered hope grind into this heart. Yuuri _was_ taken. His lover was the dance floor and Viktor understood it all too well. He had a lover like that once, too.

* * *

The Open Professional Standard event on Saturday night started with a quarter final that included many of the country’s top couples. Twenty three to be exact. Half the Rising Star couples didn’t even bother entering. But this was Yuuri and Sara’s first chance to see how they measured up against the _real_ competition and they were going to give it their all, their goal to get recalled to the semifinal. 

Their five months of training had been intense, but certainly not enough to bring them into a final at an event like this. Many of these couples have danced together for years. Not to mention that Yuuri had less Standard experience than any of the other dancers, leaders or followers. There were few expectations, but he still felt compelled to prove himself. Now wasn’t the time to compromise. Especially with that Russian in their event. Yuuri hated the thought of losing to _him_.

Twelve couples on the floor at a time meant routines were abandoned not for musicality, but for floor craft, for safety. Yuuri refused to sacrifice either. And when they took their bows at the end of the waltz, he was immensely grateful for his partner, who followed skillfully, gracefully, without fear or second guessing, trusting that he would listen and take care of her. That adoration allowed him to ignore _that couple_ in the second group and continue giving his best for the remaining dances.

They made the semifinal.

Waiting in the on-deck area to dance again, Sara and Mila giggled together, each wishing the other good luck while their partners stood at their sides. Thankfully, Nikiforov wasn’t trying to make conversation this time. Yuuri had enough to think about without having to acknowledge that soft, sad gaze. Or the memory of having his wrist adjusted. Or having been held during a clumsy moment. No, now was the time to focus. To see just how far they could go.

He gently threaded his fingers trough Sara’s. He needed her and sighed in relief when she understood this small act and promptly excused herself from the conversation with Mila. She turned to Yuuri and offered a bright smile from her glossy pout. He didn’t have the words to express what he needed. He wasn't even sure he knew. Did he want to feel grounded? Confident? Or simply to know he wasn’t alone? Luckily his partner knew exactly what to say.

“Whatever happens, we’ve already met our goal. Let’s just dance for each other.” She squeezed his hand.

Yes, he could do that. He _wanted_ to do that. And to dance for Sara meant to prove that he wasn’t just a dime a dozen ballroom instructor anymore. He was a top dancesport athlete. Or at least he could become one again. 

Two marks. They missed the final by only two marks. It was a tremendous result beyond any they could have expected. Yuuri still stood dumbfounded after Sara threw herself at him, his arms loose around her in surprise. He loved seeing her like this, giddy and excited, and found the contrast between her girly personality and refined competition look absolutely endearing.

“Oh! Let’s hurry up and change so we can catch the final,” she exclaimed before bounding off as quickly as she rushed in.

When the Russian couple from New York was declared the winner at their debut event, few were truly surprised. Yuuri clapped out of politeness. Not that he thought they didn’t deserve to win. They were absolutely the best dancers here tonight. It’s just that he was still conflicted about his own feelings toward Nikiforov. His seething hatred was at odds with the small glimpses Yuuri saw off the floor. The Russian was a kind teacher. He obviously loved his dog. And he seemed to treat his partner well, as he should. He certainly owed her that much for pulling the crap he has. But there was something more, something that kept reminding Yuuri of their first encounter. Perhaps he’d just imagined it then.

He pulled himself together for the congratulations they would offer the winning couple at Sara’s insistence. Just a handshake. _That’s all it would be_ , he hoped. But, no, that would have been too easy. Instead, it turned out to be a handshake accompanied by Nikiforov’s melancholy expression and it left Yuuri feeling just as exposed as that wrist adjustment all those months ago. When he kissed Mila on the cheek next, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss her partner instead. He quickly rid himself of that pestilent thought. How could he want to kiss someone he hated?

When Yuuri and Sara walked out of the ballroom at the end of the night, a wave of regret hit them both. Unlike many of the couples here, they weren’t going to Nationals next week. They had underestimated themselves and now it was too late. It was really a shame, a lost opportunity. But they chose to look at the bright side, to acknowledge their disappointment only stemmed from the stellar performance they gave earlier that night, one that had a few of the top vendors clamoring to catch them on their way out. And when all was said and done, they’d managed to secure sponsors for shoes _and_ costumes.

“Let’s get you both in for fittings tomorrow morning. There’s not enough time for a custom order by your next competition, so we’ll alter something from our existing collection. But don’t worry, we’ll definitely make sure to have you both properly dressed in time for Ohio.”

“Thank you! I’m so excited. Mila Babicheva told me how great you’ve been to work with.”

“We’re excited to have you represent us.” The costume designer then turned to address Yuuri. “Who would have thought that you would come back to the floor dancing Standard instead of Latin,” she laughed lightly and shook her head in disbelief. “Regardless, we’re glad you’re back. Viktor himself told us to watch you two tonight and you sure delivered.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Group: In preliminary rounds with too many couples to fit on the floor at once, the heat is split into multiple groups. One group will dance first, then walk off the floor at one end while the next group enters from the opposite end. The groups alternate after each dance. So instead of dancing all five dances in a row, group 1 will dance waltz, walk off, reassemble in the on-deck area while group 2 dances waltz, and then walk back on for tango, etc.
> 
> Judging and scoring (marks): Dancesport uses a rank system rather than points. In the preliminary rounds, judges simply “mark” which couples they’d like to recall to the next round. The couples with the most marks advance. For example, if there are 10 judges and 5 dances, the most marks a couple can get is 50, which is a mark from each judge in every dance. In the final, judges force rank the couples 1 to 6. Some international competitions do use points, but I won’t go into that. 
> 
> Ohio (Ohio Star Ball): A hugely important competition. A win at Ohio might as well be a win at Nationals. If you watched ballroom dancing on PBS as a kid, this is the competition you saw. Takes place in Columbus, Ohio at the end of November.
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: The couples compete at Ohio Star Ball. Viktor gets a surprise or two.


	7. Hiccup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The couples compete at Ohio Star Ball. Viktor gets a surprise or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohio (Ohio Star Ball): A hugely important competition. A win at Ohio might as well be a win at Nationals. Takes place in Columbus, Ohio at the end of November. They do a few things differently from most other competitions: (1) They put the Rising Star event on the last day, so that means Open comes first; (2) There are 7 couples in the final; (3) All couples who make the final also compete in a Showdance.
> 
> Showdance: An event where each couple performs a routine to their own choice of music. Any choreography is allowed, but they must dance at least one of the 5 dances in their style. Lifts are permitted.

It had been over two months since Viktor last saw Yuuri. Closer to eleven weeks, actually. Eleven weeks since he gave up hope of a relationship outside the formalities, since he surrendered Yuuri to the ballroom. Ten weeks since he and Mila placed third at Nationals, a monumental result given Mila’s lack of experience and the length of their partnership. Six weeks since he accepted that monumental result as such, no longer pining for the winner’s spotlight and a ticket to abandon domestic competitions. Three weeks since he started watching Yuuri and Sara’s videos from Embassy, purely for research purposes, of course. Not for the beautiful dancer he still wanted but knew he couldn’t have. Two weeks since Mila busted him for it. And one week since he obsessed over his off-the-floor wardrobe, making sure to get Makkachin’s approval. Just in case.

The competition was nearly halfway over by Friday morning, having started on Tuesday, but all the juicy events were still to come. And Viktor was very much looking forward to spectating this morning’s Latin events where Yuuri would be dancing with a student. He started walking toward an unassuming spot in the stands when a familiar voice purred in his ear, “You came to watch me? I’m so touched! But I won’t be on for another hour.”

“Chris!” Viktor smiled widely and hugged his dear friend. He hadn’t seen him in almost as long as Yuuri.

“So who are you really here to see? It’s unlike you to watch Latin.”

“Perhaps my interests are broadening.” Viktor winked. He missed this banter.

Chris narrowed his eyes and scanned the perimeter of the ballroom floor, dwarfed in the convention center, before pausing at a particular Pro/Am couple. “Katsuki?”

Viktor nodded excitedly. He was in no shape to talk about his crush last time, but maybe now Chris could tell him more. “What do you know about him? I can’t find much other than his past Latin results. I don’t even know why he split with his last partner or why he switched to Standard now. But he’s good. Very good.”

“He’s pretty private. There was a rumor he and his last partner split because she got pregnant. I’m sorry I don’t know more than that.”

 _Damn._ That only raised more questions than it answered. Was Yuuri the father? Was Yuuri _a_ father? Did his partner have the baby or terminate the pregnancy? Was that why he moved? Did they move together as a family? Did he start teaching to provide for his family? Were they still together? Was that why he was so guarded about a relationship now?

Viktor still cherished that precious moment when they first met, when he helped Yuuri up after Makkachin got too enthusiastic, and the adorable way the younger man stumbled into his arms. He felt something then, something warm and real. He was sure Yuuri felt it, too. But that precious moment ended far too quickly, and Yuuri hasn’t been the same toward him since. Was this why?

“Oh, wow. That may explain some things, thanks. Good luck today.”

“And good luck to you. You have impeccable taste!” Chris winked as he walked away, his green eyes twinkling at the self-flattery. Viktor couldn’t help but agree. Chris has always been a great friend, one that helped him through his turbulent partnerships. For that, Viktor would always be grateful. Their no-strings-attached nights together were just an added bonus.

He took his seat in the stands and watched Yuuri attend to his student. It had been nearly four years now since Yuuri’s last Latin competition, the video of which Viktor may or may not have watched nearly a hundred times, but _wow_ , he looked even better now, his body more mature and masculine, with broader shoulders and a more defined waist. When they entered the floor and Yuuri flashed a smile at the audience, Viktor finally admitted to himself that, no, he hadn’t given up all hope. A spark still lingered. 

And when Yuuri’s hips started moving to the samba rhythm, expertly bouncing and rotating to the pulsating beat, Viktor may as well have died. Yep. It was 90 seconds of pure dead, his brain as done for as his heart, unable to process a single thought until the music ended and the dancing stopped.

A giggle to his left finally brought him out of his stupor before the next dance began. “You, too, huh?”

“Sara!”

“I love watching him dance Latin. We dance together for fun sometimes, just goofing around. I once asked him if he’d consider Ten-Dance, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. So I never pushed it,” Sara offered a bit of insight, both of them with eyes fixed on the floor.

“Do you know why?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t talk about it. But he had a difficult split from his last partner. I think he’s still trying to ignore what happened.”

“Was he the father?” Viktor asked earnestly, without shame or hesitation, the question drowned out by applause.

Sara chose her words carefully, taking time to reply, “He wasn’t. But I think he wanted to be.”

Viktor was such an idiot. Here was poor Yuuri, still heartbroken, and Viktor was trying to get in his pants. _That’s_ why they shared only a brief moment before he closed off. _That’s_ why things were so awkward. Well, then. Viktor was just going to have to have to give Yuuri more space. Which he could totally do.

“Thank you, by the way. For the costume sponsor. They’ve been amazing.”

“You would have been picked up eventually. I just sped up the process.” He had simply wanted to give Yuuri _something_ , even if it wasn’t his company. “You both looked very good at Embassy. I can’t wait to see what you bring tonight.”

* * *

Sara was barely able to contain her excitement while she and Yuuri waited behind the curtain to get introduced to the audience and walk those steps down to the floor. They’d made the final. In the Open Professional Standard. At Ohio. _At Ohio!_ , she kept reminding him when he failed to react with more than a smile and a squeeze of the hand.

It wasn’t Yuuri’s first time at a final at Ohio, but tonight’s experience was so different that it may as well have been. He hadn’t gone into the event at the start of the night simply hoping for the best as he had all those years ago. This time, he had a purpose—to prove he didn’t need anything from Viktor Nikiforov. Least of all the Russian’s dumb, sappy smile when he wished them good luck right before the quarter final. And while Yuuri was grateful for the costume sponsor because it made Sara so happy, he hated that they hadn’t rightfully earned it themselves. He needed to prove they deserved it.

Stepping out onto that floor to cheers and whistles as one of the top seven couples, with Sara at his side, Yuuri had indeed proven it. He felt stronger than ever. _I belong here._ He threw a glance at the Russians who took their spot on the opposite wall before directing all his focus and energy to the only person who mattered—his partner—and allowed the gentle notes of the waltz to carry them both across the floor.

The group final passed in the blink of an eye, a blur of lights reflecting off thousands of crystals, punctuated by moments of applause. And now it was a mad scramble to change costumes and prepare for their first ever Showdance. They hadn’t prepared anything that special, choosing to spend their time on actually making it into the final. Their dance was simply their normal quickstep routine with a choreographed entrance and exit—and a little bit of jive thrown in for good measure.

To Yuuri’s dismay, they drew the first spot. But they still managed to dance well, gaining more reaction from the crowd than he expected. With a sigh of relief, Sara’s hand still in his own, he found a place to stand to watch the remaining couples.

The crowd went silent when Mila entered the floor, alone. She stepped slowly to individual notes of a somber piano, each echoing like a raindrop, her dress a dull and lifeless grey, not a single rhinestone. While the audience was transfixed, wondering what dance it was going to be, when her partner would join, Yuuri had to look away. It reminded him too much of Nikiforov’s melancholy expression at Embassy. And that led to him to remember every gaze and touch they shared. He didn’t want to think about it, about his conflicting feelings. 

The dance turned out to be Viennese waltz, a gorgeous one from what Yuuri gathered based on the crowd's reaction. How the Russian managed to make a bright and lively dance into something desperate and haunting was beyond anyone. But he had. Yuuri was right to look away.

They weren’t surprised to get seventh place, proud to have even made it this far, proud to be standing among the other finalists. And yet Yuuri couldn’t help but smirk when he heard the next result.

“And now… In third place… Placing third in all dances… From New York, couple 334, Viktor Nikiforov and Mila Babicheva!”

The gap was closing and it felt good.

After Nikiforov took his bow for the audience and approached them for the customary handshake, Yuuri noticed the dumb, sappy smile from before was gone, replaced by one might wear during a jazzy foxtrot—one that was for show only. The Russian was trying to hide his disappointment. And as the third place finalist stood in front of the seventh, Yuuri’s heart began to race without reason. So what if _he_ was disappointed? Competitors were constantly disappointed. Why should Nikiforov be any different? Why should Yuuri even care? He shouldn’t. But he did.

By the time the winners were announced, Sara was practically twitching, eager for the moment the formalities would end so she could jump into Yuuri’s arms. But there was one more award left. The Showdance. And, of course, that went to the Russians for their Viennese waltz. Nikiforov’s smile quirked. He seemed happier and Yuuri felt somewhat relieved.

Sara paid no attention, focused on her own agenda. Despite the late hour—it was already nearly midnight—after changing out of costumes and pulling off false lashes, they would celebrate. Because tonight was their night. And they would join the other top dancers in the small hotel ballroom reserved just for them. 

“Yuuri! Hurry! It’s already started.” Sara looked over her shoulder to see her partner fumbling with his favorite pale blue tie. “Oh, god, no. Don’t wear that one. Just leave it. You look better without a tie anyway.”

* * *

Viktor watched from the side in fascination as a delightfully tipsy Yuuri danced an energetic jive with Mila, complete with impressive spins and kicks. He’d seen Yuuri consume no less than four drinks in the last hour, and was certain those weren’t his only. How was he still schooling everyone around him?

When the song ended, a now sultry Yuuri escorted a giggling Mila off the floor. He walked directly toward Viktor, who assumed his job was to take her off the other dancer’s hands. He was so, so wrong.

“Niki—“ Hiccup. “—forov! Tango. Now.”

Well this was certainly a pleasant surprise. Viktor’s face could not suppress his initial mix of disbelief and delight when he found himself dancing as a follower to one of his favorite tango songs in the arms of his now absolutely favorite leader. A few measures in, he slipped fully into character despite the crowded floor that left no room for large strides or impressive figures. But it didn’t matter. Yuuri’s leading was divine. Clear. Precise. Viktor immediately trusted Yuuri’s floorcraft, feeling so safe, so taken care of in those arms in a way he’s never felt. He wanted to melt into the hold and never leave. Never mind the minor topline adjustment he still wanted Yuuri to make.

Viktor has always enjoyed following but rarely got to truly experience it beyond knowing the technical details and the occasional discussions and demonstrations with partners and coaches. Even when out social dancing, partners of both sexes preferred him to lead. But this moment made him feel so alive, so happy to be dancing that he almost dared to believe he loved following more than leading. Or maybe it was his current partner that made him feel that way.

When the song began to fade out, Viktor vaguely registered that he only had a precious few seconds left with Yuuri before the DJ would cue up something new, but he was too caught up in the moment to worry. A final back corté in the corner, incomplete, paused after the first step, had Viktor with an arched back, hips forward to his partner. He felt himself being raised up from it, but it wasn’t a lead to continue the figure. Confused, he turned his head to look at Yuuri, expecting—well, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. 

Certainly not Yuuri’s luxurious lips pressing a searing kiss to his own as the beat of a heavy cha cha flooded the ballroom, Viktor’s heart thumping just as loudly. He kissed back in desperation, afraid this moment wasn’t real, wouldn’t last. He invited Yuuri’s tongue to explore while he savored the heat, the taste, the sensation coursing through his entire body. It overwhelmed him. It rendered him immobile when Yuuri suddenly pulled away. And like that, Viktor stood alone at the edge of the floor, stunned and rather inconveniently aroused.

He touched his hand to his mouth, hoping to recapture the delicious moment, to assure himself it really happened. It had, hadn’t it?

Glancing back out to the floor, Yuuri was easy to spot. The crowd had cleared a space for him. Together with Chris. Viktor’s jaw dropped in pure jealousy at the sight. The two were dancing cha cha, but unlike any cha cha one would see on the competition floor. This was raw, beyond mere flirtation. Unapologetically provocative. At some point, Yuuri had even lost his shirt. 

The true knife to the heart, though, wasn’t seeing Yuuri dance this way with someone else so soon after their kiss. It was witnessing the superior partnering skills. When Viktor first spotted them, Chris was leading. But an underarm turn later, it was Yuuri. And they continued to spontaneously flip between leading and following at the drop of a hat, neither missing the exchange, in a way only the best same-sex social dancers could. But with the technique of professionals. 

Everyone who witnessed that cha cha left the party in awe.

Viktor left in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music is required to play between 90 to 120 seconds per dance, with a minimum 30 second break between dances to bow and find a new place on the floor for the next dance. Usually lower-level events get the minimum 90 seconds while Pro events get the full 2 minutes. Showdances are a max of 4 minutes, including entering and exiting the floor. 
> 
> Yuuri and Viktor’s tango: _Santa Maria (del Buen Ayre), Gotan Project_ \- 20 years old and still a favorite - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xu3AjfZyg6k>
> 
> Back corté: a basic figure in tango where the leader steps back and the follower takes a small lunge forward and stretches the back.
> 
> Spontaneously flipping between leading and following in social dancing is a rare, but very real thing. And it is so. much. fun. It obviously requires that both partners know to how lead and follow as well as be comfortable with the quick exchanges. And for reasons, it only works with certain dances.
> 
> Comps tend to have parties on Saturday nights, if at all, but Ohio is big and lasts longer than most, so let's say they have them on Friday, too. And, yes, competition does wrap up around midnight. Yuuri was very tired and loopy from dancing all day. He’s going to struggle tomorrow.
> 
> Ballroom dancers generally don’t drink much alcohol while out dancing, preferring water, but the event is over and Yuuri is Yuuri so here we are. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri suffers the consequences of his actions.


	8. Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri suffers the consequences of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackpool (Blackpool Dance Festival): The most prestigious ballroom competition in the world, with hundreds of couples in both Amateur and Professional events, held in May in the gorgeous Winter Gardens in Blackpool, England. With live music!

Yuuri had no words for the disappointed face staring back at him. The light had already been too bright when he opened his eyes to Sara in his bed instead of her own. And unlike that first time, she was clearly awake long before he was, her expression without a hint of flirtation. Something happened last night. Yuuri just wished he could remember what.

In truth, he never felt fully comfortable with the arrangement they had, afraid of underlying feelings some day coming to the surface and tearing their partnership apart. Or him apart, like with Yuuko. He wouldn’t be able to handle that pain again, losing not just a dance partner, but a best friend, and a lover, as one-sided as it was. Her words were so quiet when she first told him she was pregnant that he almost didn’t believe her, his mind insisting he’d misheard. And as the message sank in, he gave a pleasant but perfunctory congratulations, his glass heart already shattered from the betrayal. Three weeks later, they placed 5th in Amateur Under 21 at Blackpool. It was a bittersweet end to their partnership.

Yuuri wasn’t sure if he was afraid of Sara growing too attached or of himself, their agreement to place the partnership above everything else far too fragile. They certainly had fun together, both eager to please when either wanted the company, but was it worth the risk? Sara usually initiated, Yuuri too timid without the assistance of alcohol, which should have been enough of a cue that keeping this up was a bad idea. They should have talked, should have stopped it altogether. Before Yuuri did whatever he did last night to ruin things.

Whether or not he could remember the details didn’t change the fact that they had drunk sex _again_ and that she deserved better. But how? What else happened last night? He remembered they made the final at least, but that thought alone didn’t provide much relief. Nor answers for his own blurry reflection in the mirror, harshly judging Drunk Yuuri’s actions.

Hiding in the bathroom wasn’t getting him far. The pounding in his skull didn’t help, either, as his vision was already crap without glasses. Yet hiding still seemed like the more appealing option given the alternative. But he was used to messing up, used to taking the blame for his failures. So when he finally couldn’t stand the guilt, he resigned himself to whatever may be and stepped back into the room to face the consequences. And maybe find an aspirin.

“I’m sorry.” He didn't know what else to say and an apology seemed like a good place to start.

“For what? For making me worry just now or for leaving Viktor last night looking like someone kicked his dog?”

Yuuri’s eyes widened in bewilderment, his headache temporarily gone. He heard the words Sara said, but they made no sense. What did Nikiforov have to do with anything? _And wait, did that mean—_

“We didn’t sleep together last night?” He blurted, barely managing to formulate the thought.

“No, silly. Not even close.” She placed a chaste peck on his cheek and gave him a look of mock pity. _Wait, what?_

“Then, why were we in the same bed?”

“I was worried about you. You had so much to drink and I just wanted to stay close by, to comfort you.”

Oh. Yuuri plunked down on his bed and released the tension from his body, grateful that Sara was as amazing of a friend off the floor as a partner on it. Her earlier expression was simply one of concern, not anger.

“I’m going to miss our fun nights, though. But I knew we weren’t going to be each other’s forever.”

Yuuri's brain turned over her words, inspecting them, but failing to grasp their meaning. Did she find a new partner? Despite their result? Yuuri looked up at her in dread. Whatever happened couldn’t have been so bad as to jeopardize their partnership, could it? “What… what do you mean?”

He knew it was going to be bad when her violet eyes twinkled in excitement usually reserved for new gowns. “You and Viktor!”

“What about me and… _him_?”

“Oh, Yuuri, you really don’t remember anything, do you?” She waited for his hesitant head shake before continuing, “You two danced a hot tango and you left him with an even hotter kiss. And then immediately dashed off to dance the most insane cha cha anyone’s ever seen with Chris. Poor guy looked like he had no idea what happened. I swear he was wondering why you were still out on the floor instead of in his bed.”

“I kissed him?” Yuuri only mouthed the words, hardly comprehending them. When they finally sunk in, the color drained from his face in horror. And shame. _Him?_

“Mila sent me a picture! See?”

Yuuri took Sara’s phone with trembling hands as she gently placed his glasses on his nose, depriving him of the option to simply ignore it. He barely finished exhaling a calming deep breath before the image stopped his heart. The kiss on that screen wasn’t innocent and timid. It was passionate, urgent and surely suited the tango they danced. It was the kind of kiss he ached to experience again. Because no matter what Yuuri thought of Nikiforov, he was undeniably attracted to everything about the other man.

Yuuri handed the phone back to Sara, shaking his head, as if willing away what he saw. That wasn’t Yuuri in that photo, not the real Yuuri anyway. It may as well have not happened. Because the real Yuuri hated Viktor Nikiforov, even if he could no longer remember why. The real Yuuri wouldn’t have allowed himself to give into ocean blue eyes that bore into his soul and left him desperate for more. And now, the real Yuuri simply wished to crawl back under the covers and spend the rest of eternity in hiding. Or at least until tomorrow when they’d have to dance Rising Star.

A knock at the door interrupted Yuuri’s attempt to bury his head under his pillow. Thankfully, Sara offered to check who it was, leaving him to pull the covers over himself in peace. He hoped whoever it was would go away soon. He still needed aspirin.

“Good morning!”

“Sara, good morning! Is Yuuri here?” Viktor Nikiforov’s voice carried from the doorway and Yuuri immediately stilled in dread. Even if Sara wasn’t mad at him about last night, surely the Russian would be. Surely he was here to—

“Are these flowers for him? They’re beautiful!”

Flowers? Nikiforov brought him _flowers_?

“Umm, yes? I was hoping to give them to him myself.”

“Oh, well, as you can see, we’re not quite dressed yet,” Sara gestured to her own robe before betraying her partner by throwing the door open wide enough for Nikiforov to see Yuuri’s form cowering in bed. Yuuri dared to turn his head to meet those remarkable blue eyes, lit up with hope like that first day at the studio.

“So I’ll take this gorgeous bouquet for now. Why don’t you come back in half an hour? I’ll be sure to have him ready.”

“Thank you!” The Russian beamed gleefully, then winked at Yuuri before he left.

_What just happened?_

* * *

“Be strong, Yuuri Katsuki! You can do this!”

Somehow, despite his protests, Yuuri found himself outside the hotel restaurant, dressed as if he were going out and not just apologizing to someone over lunch, because by now it was far too late for breakfast. Sara practically shoved him in before scurrying off, no doubt to conspire with Mila on how else to make his day miserable. Those two were just as bad as Phichit. With a sigh, he slowly proceeded to where the platinum-haired man sat, obviously expecting an explanation which Yuuri wouldn’t be able to provide.

Viktor fidgeted at the table as he waited, nudging the silverware around until the setting was perfect. It’s been years since he’s had a proper first date, and even longer since he’s had a second. He sincerely hoped the Makkachin-approved fitted slacks and cashmere sweater would impress Yuuri. He really wanted a second date, and a third, and hopefully so much more. And not just for the tantalizing kiss, but for that glorious feeling of being held.

Viktor had to remember to breathe when he saw Yuuri coming toward him, looking nothing like the Yuuri from last night. No, today’s Yuuri was flustered and adorable and it made Viktor’s heart swell with joy. He definitely wanted so much more than a second date. He wanted matching tail suits.

“Yuuri!”

The way Nikiforov said Yuuri’s name, smiling up at him through thick, pale lashes was at once terrifying and exhilarating. Yuuri hadn’t planned on staying. He had only planned on apologizing and then promptly leaving. But his knees became weak and plopping into the chair across from the Russian seemed like a better option than collapsing onto the floor. Or worse, falling into those strong, warm arms again.

“Hello,” Yuuri managed before picking up the menu, studying it like a fascinating piece of literature in order to avoid meeting eyes with the man he had kissed. Nothing seemed all that appealing, his appetite gone, but when the waiter came by and they still hadn’t exchanged any words, Yuuri felt compelled to fill the silence with an order of tea and a sandwich he hoped he’d be able to keep down. His didn’t notice his dining companion order the same.

The menus now cleared away, Yuuri dared to glance up. That brilliant smile was still there, fully directed at him and it made him wish he could remember their kiss from last night, just to know what it was like. Because it was never going to happen again. After all, he was drunk. It didn’t mean anything. And he didn’t want to give Nikiforov the wrong idea. Even if Drunk Yuuri thought it was the perfect idea.

“Did you like the flowers, Yuuri?”

“Oh, umm… I did. Thank you, Viktor.” _Viktor._ It just rolled off his tongue, not a trace of the bitter taste he expected in his mouth. After all that hidden spite, of refusing to use his first name, Yuuri had finally said it. He _did_ like the flowers. “Uh, how’s Makkachin?”

“Aww, you remember my Makka? She's such a good girl! I really miss her when I’m away for competitions. The sitter just sent me pictures. Want to see?”

“Sure.” It would be a welcome change from the picture he saw earlier. Besides, poodles were a safe topic. Yuuri understood poodles. Yuuri did not understand Viktor or his heart-shaped smile while showing off literally dozens of photos of his dog until their food arrived. Was this really the same man as the cold-hearted playboy?

“Ah, I’m sorry. I got carried away there.”

“It’s okay. I have a poodle, too.” Yuuri had absolutely no reason to volunteer this information. He was just here to apologize. But… surely a few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

“Yuuri! You do?! Can I see?” Viktor was about to lose it. He already thought Yuuri was perfect, but now to learn that he had a poodle! And it’s cute-sized poodle at that! He had to kiss this man again. But it was probably better to wait until later. Right. Yuuri needed space. Maybe they could go for a walk after lunch? And hold hands? And _then_ kiss? And then do it again. That wouldn’t be too much.

“I wish you would have brought him by the studio when I was visiting. He and Makka could have played together.”

Yuuri didn’t want to admit that he often _did_ bring Vicchan to the studio, especially on days he had kids classes. He just didn’t that weekend because he didn’t want an unnecessary reason to interact with Viktor. Not knowing what to say, Yuuri instead looked down at his cooling cup of tea.

“So, what would you like to do this after this?” Viktor thankfully didn’t seem to notice the lack of reply. 

But why such a basic question would have his face glowing with excitement and hope was completely beyond Yuuri, who was only here to tell Viktor he was very sorry about what happened last night. And then he would leave and hopefully get in a few hours of practice. So he answered questioningly, “Go back to my room?”

“Wow! Yuuri!” Viktor’s charming smile instantly turned wolfish. “And here I thought we’d be saving that for the second date.”

Second date? _Date?_ Yuuri blinked absently a few times before the realization hit. Viktor thought this was a date? _Oh, god._ Breathe. Yuuri needed to remember how to breathe. Inhale followed by exhale. Again. It seemed like an eternity until he was confident enough that his voice wouldn’t fail him. He needed to clear this up. Now.

“I’m sorry, Viktor, but I really only came here to apologize. For last night, I mean. Thank you for the dance. I heard it was a nice tango, but I don’t remember it. I also know that I kissed you, but I don’t remember that either. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. I messed up.”

And with that, Yuuri abruptly stood up, grabbed some bills from his wallet, slammed them on the table, and did what he does best. He fled.

From Viktor. From himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of technicalities around when a couple loses eligibility to compete in Rising Star (too many for me to explain concisely). The oversimplified version is that yes, Yuuri and Sara are still eligible to compete on Sunday. They'll win, collect their prize money, and will no longer be eligible in the future. Viktor and Mila were never eligible to begin with because of Viktor's past placements. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor copes. Sort of. A new dancer joins the studio.


	9. Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor copes. Sort of. A new dancer joins the studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s no competitive “season” in dancesport. Competitions happen all year round and, with few exceptions, dancers can freely choose which ones to enter based on their goals, standings, etc. 
> 
> Syllabus vs open choreography: The syllabus is a list of figures from basic to advanced that correspond to Amateur proficiency levels. There is also an even higher set of proficiency levels called “Open” which do not have syllabus restrictions. Therefore, open choreography is simply advanced choreography that incorporates figures beyond the syllabus. 
> 
> Rounds: In practice, simulating an actual competition round by dancing all 5 dances back to back for 2 minutes per dance with 30 seconds between dances. There are even practice music tracks that include an emcee announcing each dance as well as applause between dances.

Coming back home after Ohio had always been hard. The congratulations short-lived, everyone eager to celebrate Thanksgiving and then jump right into prepping for holiday parties and showcases. What was supposed to be a time of joy and celebration was but a reminder of the lonely life Viktor had chosen for his sport, his art. This year, he felt more disconnected than ever. Isolated. Heartbroken. For the first time, he wasn’t sure his choice was worth it, his mind constantly wandering back to thoughts of Yuuri.

Daily, hourly, Viktor relived the passion of their kiss, the joy of sharing photos of their beloved poodles, and the cruel way Yuuri had walked out on him. Why? What unknown boundary had Viktor crossed? He was trying to do the right thing, trying to stay back. It was Yuuri who invited him to dance, who initiated their amazing kiss. Viktor never had a kiss a like that before and the thought of never having one again was too much to bear.

“How do I get him to talk to me?” Viktor pleaded in all sincerity, desperate. His efforts to pry Yuuri’s number from Mila through her friendship with Sara had failed. She simply gave Viktor a meek apology. _Sara said it wasn’t her place to push_ , she’d told him and he could see the regret in her eyes. Viktor then called Celestino’s studio and left a message. Okay, an embarrassing number of messages that had the coach threatening to call Yakov if he didn’t stop.

He even found Phichit Chulanont’s marvelous Instagram account which bestowed him with glimpses into Yuuri’s life—dancing, teaching, playing with his cute-sized Vicchan—each photo more endearing than the last. Why had he not looked it up earlier? And then he scrolled back nearly two years, finding something so completely spectacular and unexpected that he was beyond grateful to be alone, already in bed. Yuuri was on a pole.

Messaging Phichit directly didn’t get him far, either, the other man polite but clearly protective. Which brought Viktor to the present, lamenting about his predicament to Chris.

“How long are you going to continue torturing yourself like this? Please, Viktor, just let it go. He was drunk when he kissed you, you said yourself he didn’t remember. He was probably embarrassed as hell to find out about it, and there you were at his door with flowers. No wonder he ran off. Don’t do this.”

“I can’t not do this, Chris. I want to be in his arms again. I want my chance at matching tail suits.”

“Okay, okay.” Viktor could practically see his friend on the other end of the line, gesturing for him to calm down. But this was not the time to be calm. “Give it some time. When’s your next competition?”

“January. UK Open.”

“Seriously?” Chris hadn’t expected Viktor to maintain the same competition schedule as when he was the U.S. National Champion.

“Of course. It’ll be good prep for Mila for Blackpool.”

“Well, shit, Viktor. What about NDCA? My point is your best chance of talking to Yuuri again is at a comp. And somehow I doubt they’re doing international yet.”

“But…” Viktor pouted, defeated. “We both know there’s nothing worth going to until at least February.” Makkachin nuzzled under his hand in support.

“Right. And it’ll likely be the same for them. So that gives you plenty of time to pull yourself together and think about what you really want to say to him. And don’t you dare do anything until then. Because knowing you, you’ll rush into it and just make it worse.”

“But what if he finds someone else in that time?”

“Oh, honey, he won’t. We all saw the way he looked at you.”

Viktor remembered—all confidence and cool desire, a glint of raw need that bordered on predatory, replaced by an expression of sheer terror not even twelve hours later. Yes, Viktor remembered very clearly how Yuuri had looked at him.

* * *

Viktor and Mila paused to sneak a glance at Yakov’s youngest and most difficult student. At least today he had a lesson. Most days he was simply dropped off at the studio after school and picked up in the late evening, left to practice on his own. It was clear he was bored, far more interested in showing off than putting effort into building the foundations. Viktor couldn’t even remember the last time he saw the blonde practice a basic. Any basic. In any dance. And yet he still insisted he’d grow up to be a champion.

“I told you repeatedly that you’re not ready for open choreography! If you can’t follow orders then quit!” Yakov barked at the thirteen year old when he added a throwaway oversway to his waltz.

“But I can do it!”

“You can mimic the action, but you can’t lead worth a damn!”

Viktor just laughed and clapped from the side. “If you’re so bored with the syllabus figures, _kotenok_ , why don’t you learn the follower’s steps instead? It might help you find a partner.”

That comment earned Viktor a defiant glare. Because as much as he hated to admit it, Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t keep a partner. Boys who dance were typically in high demand, but he hasn’t had a single partnership that made it past the first competition. And he was starting to get a reputation for being difficult to work with, too arrogant of his own abilities, too good for his partners—The Russian Punk.

“Fine. If I learn the follower’s steps, then you're going to choreograph my routines when I find a partner!”

“Sure. When you find a partner, come see me. I’ll give you the best open routines ever.” Viktor offered his hand and Yura shook it. 

As they released, the younger dancer’s smug face caught something from the corner of his eye, something that displeased him. “What are you looking at, asshole?”

“Language!” Yakov’s patience seemed to always hang by a thread.

Mila glanced over at the new student quietly watching them, a handsome young man with dark hair and eyes who she’d seen at the studio maybe once or twice before. She flashed him a welcoming smile that said, _Don’t mind him_.

He nodded and returned to his practice.

Mila was pretty and popular with the boys. She had dates here and there, but none that were serious. She wasn’t really interested in serious anyway. But something about Yakov’s new student piqued her interest. He had a quiet power to him, mysterious and dreamy. When she saw him again a few days later, he was taking a lesson with Yakov, and her attention immediately went to him when she and Viktor paused for a break.

“Sorry to interrupt. Mila, do you mind helping with a demonstration?” the coach asked.

She nodded in agreement, perhaps with too much enthusiasm.

“This is Otabek. We’re working on promenades. Will you let him lead you through a few variations?”

It wasn’t often that Viktor got to watch Mila dance with someone else. The last time he could remember was that jive with Yuuri. The one right before his own tango with Yuuri. He closed his eyes in frustration, but that only made the memory more vivid in his mind, bringing with it feelings of thrill and desire. Followed by devastating loss. Maybe only five minutes had passed or twenty, or two hours for all Viktor knew, before Mila returned with flushed cheeks, acting coy. Viktor had lost track of time thinking about Yuuri.

“I need to get some frustration out of my system. Mind if we do rounds?” Viktor softly asked his partner. He saw that Otabek’s lesson had ended, leaving them free rein over the studio sound system, which he preferred over their synced headphones.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. Let me change shoes then,” Mila agreed with barely a hint of reluctance. Viktor walked over to the computer to cue up the rounds playlist while she changed out of her low-heeled practice shoes to a well-loved pair of court shoes, dusty and scuffed up, the flesh-colored satin long torn off at the toes.

Three back to back rounds left Mila lying on the floor on her back, splayed like a starfish, her chest heaving. Viktor wasn’t much better off, sitting next to her, head tipped back against the mirrored wall, thanking her for indulging him. His lungs burned as much as his quads and it was exactly what he needed to clear his head.

His eyes snapped back to focus when he heard Mila thank someone, his water bottle held out directly in front of him. He followed the outstretched arm up to Otabek and smiled in appreciation.

“Are you done with the music?” The stoic young man asked simply.

“Oh! Of course. Please take it!” Mila hastily replied for both of them, a flush unrelated to their exertion creeping into her face.

Otabek put on a rumba. So he was a Ten-dancer, then. Viktor couldn’t help but notice the way Mila watched his settling of the hips and the rippling of his back muscles. _Looks like she’s getting a crush_ , he thought with much amusement. He sincerely hoped it would work out. Someone here aught to have love, even if it wasn’t going to be him.

As the weeks went by, however, it seemed that neither of them would have love. Otabek largely kept to himself. The most Mila managed to learn was that he attended Yakov’s summer intensive last year and that he moved here from Canada. She and Viktor performed their winning Viennese waltz for a sold-out holiday gala the week before Christmas, right before the studio officially closed for the rest of the year, right before Viktor would spend yet another birthday with only Makkachin and a bottle of whiskey for company, his feelings for Yuuri freshly unearthed.

The new year came and went, and soon Viktor found himself returning back to New York from England. He tried to convince himself that 12th wasn’t a _bad_ placement. Not when there were 165 other couples below them. But it wasn’t entirely a _good_ placement either, considering last year, Viktor finished 4th at the UK Open with his previous partner, and 5th with the one before that. He knew Mila just needed time, that she’d get there eventually, but it didn’t dull the pain of disappointment. She was exactly what he needed in a partner in many ways, especially all those months ago. But Viktor was a selfish man. And as the one year mark of their partnership inched closer, he started wanting more than a partner who accepted him. He wanted a partner to challenge him. He was ready to claw to the top again. But he wouldn’t dare abandon Mila on a whim the way he had been abandoned. Besides, there was only one person Viktor wanted as a partner, and as unattainable as that might be, he owed it to himself to try.

* * *

“California Open.” Mila looked up from her phone expectantly.

“And they already submitted their entries?”

“Yes, she said they got them in last week. Apparently the organizers invited them.” Mila paused in amusement, watching Viktor’s expression change from frantic to purposeful. “So we’re going?”

“We’re going.” There was no question. He pulled her into a hug before whispering, “Thank you.”

“Of course.” _It’s the least I can do after everything_ , she didn’t have the courage to add.

Chris had told Viktor to think about what he wanted to say to Yuuri. Three months of thinking about it hadn’t yielded any words, but at least he had a plan, even if it was one that involved continuing to torture himself. He would let Yuuri take the figurative lead. And hopefully the literal, too, if the opportunity presented itself.

Now standing immediately outside the wide, open doors of the practice hall where Viktor knew Yuuri and Sara were, he was about to create that opportunity. He stepped into sparse ballroom—a large wood floor in the center with scattered chairs along the perimeter holding gear bags and water bottles, dancers of all levels warming up for their upcoming events or practicing for later in the day, some in full costume, others in just practice clothes—and immediately froze in place at the sight before him. Yuuri looked gorgeous, more polished than ever. Viktor gulped before striding in, hoping his smile wouldn’t betray how terrified he felt, already grieving for his fragile heart in case Yuuri rejected him once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Open: You may have noticed this term gets thrown around a lot in ballroom (open choreography, Open Professional). It just means without restrictions. A lot of competitions have “Open” in their name, which means they’re open to anyone as opposed to Closed which means there’s some kind of restriction. 
> 
> Throwaway Oversway: a popular picture-line figure that can be danced in waltz, foxtrot, and tango.
> 
> Promenade: A position where the leader and follower open their bodies to create a V-shape and face the same direction. 
> 
> UK Open (United Kingdom Open Championships): A huge international competition held in January in Bournemouth, England. 
> 
> California Open (California Open DanceSport Championships): A large competition in Orange County, CA in mid-February.
> 
> It’s not unheard of for competition organizers to personally invite couples and waive entry fees or comp travel expenses just so they can say such and such couple is competing there and draw more ticket sales.
> 
> Here’s a gem from the UK Open a few years ago. This part is NOT judged. Her real partner is the one in darker grey who shows up later: https://youtu.be/ldQ33QGeaeA
> 
> Yuri: 5'4"  
> Otabek: 5'6"
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor and Yuuri share a dance.


	10. Next Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri share a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to each of you who continue to follow this story and comment. I love reading your reactions and speculation on what will happen next. This chapter is for you. 💖
> 
> ***
> 
> Hover corté: An advanced, elegant figure where the couple remains in place on rise (on the toes) for several counts of music while slowly brushing the feet and rotating, giving the illusion of floating.  
>   
> 

It was early enough in the morning that the practice hall was still nearly empty, the event hall likely still empty, too. An 8am heat time meant getting up very early to prep and warm-up prior to hitting the floor. It also meant dancing for rows of empty spectator seats which wouldn’t start getting filled until later in the day. But Yuuri was used to early mornings on competition days. And if he still had Pro/Am students to compete with, he’d be on-deck to dance Latin right now.

Ohio changed everything. Coming back as Rising Star Champions and Open Finalists catapulted Yuuri and Sara into the spotlight. They barely had time to celebrate Yuuri’s birthday before Celestino sat them down to prepare the couple for what they should expect. Yuuri thought he had an idea of what success meant from his time as an Under 21 champion. He was so very wrong.

The first suffocating order of business was their teaching rates. Celestino raised them considerably while keeping the same cut for himself. This was non-negotiable if they wanted to stay with him and his studio. In theory, more income was a good thing. But not when it meant some of Yuuri’s students could no longer afford him. _For prestige and exclusivity_ , Celestino had said, explaining the couple’s title and name recognition alone would drive more students to the studio, including those who could afford the higher cost lessons. Phichit was all too eager to help with a social media campaign to ensure Celestino was right.

The second, third, and fourth all had to do with scheduling and logistics. Who knew there were so many damn factors to consider? It all amounted to less competing and more traveling than ever before. Suddenly, they were no longer being asked to perform as a favor, but paid well for it as the featured couple. They cut half their planned competitions, choosing to keep only the highest profile ones and planning extra days in those cities as guest teachers at the local studios. And perhaps most dramatically and costly, they started traveling longer and longer distances for supplementary coaching. They were going to be the best and the more coaches and judges they could get in front of, the better.

The fifth was by far the hardest for Yuuri to accept, let alone adjust to. He still hadn’t. Celestino urged his star couple to use their new bump in income to drop Pro/Am events so they could focus more on their own training. As if saying goodbye to students wasn’t enough, Yuuri now had to tell the ones who were willing to stay with him that he could only coach them, but no longer take them to competition. Celestino helped him with each conversation, but his gut wrenched just the same each time. He got new students, of course. But that was just as much a curse as a blessing, having to learn about their needs, goals, learning styles. Not to mention the paralyzing fear of meeting each new student or couple for the first time, waiting for them to decide that Yuuri wasn’t worth the price tag after all.

The changes at times felt too overwhelming. Especially when the dance magazines and news sites flocked to Yuuri and Sara for interviews, all praising the couple’s swift success. Yuuri was more than happy to allow his partner to do the talking, grateful for all she continued to do. He had even forgiven her for setting him up on that “date” with Viktor after she patiently sat with him and held his hand through his near hysteric sobbing when he returned to their hotel room in shock. They came to a silent agreement then to never speak of that party or of Viktor again.

Phichit found out anyway when Yuuri came home one day on the verge of a panic attack. The trigger was but a tiny, seemingly innocent thought: _Is this what Viktor’s life is like?_ The moment it crossed Yuuri’s mind, he immediately latched on to all the assumptions he’d made, the judgements he’d passed, and the resulting lost opportunities. But opportunities for what, exactly? He couldn’t quite say. Not when he could hardly breathe. Yet when he could finally form words again, they wouldn’t stop. The whole story tumbled out to his friend in a teary, barely coherent mess—everything from the tango and the kiss he couldn’t remember to the lunch he couldn’t forget. Everything except Yuuri’s true feelings, which he kept to himself because he still didn’t understand them.

The problem, of course, was that Yuuri Katsuki no longer hated Viktor Nikiforov. Drunk Yuuri made that quite obvious. It took a while to admit this to himself, but Sober Yuuri wanted Viktor, too. Handsome, silly Viktor, with his sparkling eyes and kissable mouth and adorable Makkachin who would probably get along very well with sweet Vicchan, who Yuuri had to leave in Phichit’s care more and more often. Except Sober Yuuri was too scared and just too damn practical, insisting it would never work between them. How could it possibly? With their competitive lifestyle and living on opposite ends of the country? Besides, it’s not as if Viktor would still be interested, right?

And yet, his brain stubbornly refused to relinquish the vivid memory of the Russian’s perfect face crumbling in heartbreak when Yuuri apologized for his actions, right before he fled the restaurant. It was probably a good thing Yuuri never knew that Viktor had attempted to contact him, that his dance family protected him from unnecessary stress. It made it possible to push away the thought that perhaps seeing that heartbreak—seeing the possibility that Viktor _was_ interested—was what scared him more than anything, what caused him to flee.

The one thing Yuuri didn’t push away, however, was his regret for how he treated Viktor. Nobody deserved being walked out on that way. Just like Yuuko didn’t deserve being walked out on all those years ago. Yuuri really was a hypocrite, wasn’t he? Talking about the importance of a partnership, of treating his partner well. The painful reality, however, was that his actions have shown that all to be nothing more than wishful thinking.

He didn’t want to hide anymore, not when there was a chance to make it right, to apologize to Viktor properly, for everything, so Yuuri could finally move on. Maybe so they both could move on, not that Yuuri was so arrogant to believe that Viktor still thought of him. So, really, this was probably more for his own benefit than anything else. Finding out that Viktor and Mila would be a last minute entry at California Open was a huge relief. It meant he wouldn’t have to wait anymore to make things right, even if he and Sara would no longer be the favorites to win.

By the time Yuuri and Sara decided it was time for a break, the floor had filled out, with most couples practicing Latin for the daytime session, but the other styles were there as well. The Ohio Star Ball Open Professional Standard Finalists slumped in their chairs, gear bags underneath, and grinned at each other while gulping water and gazing out at the floor, well aware of all the now disappointed eyes that had been discreetly watching their practice. Yuuri still didn’t know what to do with all the new attention and was afraid to admit aloud that he kind of liked it. It was validating.

A commotion from the entrance to the hall caught their attention. Everyone’s attention, really. Dancers abandoned their practices to fawn over the platinum-haired newcomer—Viktor Nikiforov, still the darling Standard champion even though he’d long ago lost that title dancing with Mila. Yuuri watched the Russian graciously fulfill every selfie request, in awe of how he indulged the other dancers. For the first time, he allowed himself to really look at Viktor’s interactions with his fans and understood he had a lot more to apologize for than he thought. The Russian wasn’t flirtatious out of arrogance, but out of excitement and kindness, like he was thankful to have someone to talk to, to pay him some attention, even if just for a fleeting moment.

Yuuri and Sara waved hello to the man as he strolled past and grabbed a chair a good distance away and began changing shoes. Sara resumed chatting about this or that, while Yuuri tried to slow the rapid beat of his heart. When she abruptly leapt up from her seat and rushed off to the ladies room, he took the opportunity to close his eyes and not think about the stretch of Viktor’s wine-colored practice shirt, with its v-neck and three quarter sleeves, and how it perfectly accentuated his powerful core. It didn’t work and when he opened them soon after, Viktor was in front of him, smiling down.

“Viktor!” Yuuri silently praised himself that it didn’t come out as a shriek.

“Hello, Yuuri. It’s nice to see you again.” Viktor’s smile was warm and genuine.

“It’s nice to see you, too." In truth, it was _very_ nice to see Viktor again. But Yuuri wasn’t ready to have his planned conversation out in the open like this. Perhaps Sara would come back soon and save him, and he glanced around nervously as if he could expedite her return. That failing, he thought of another way out. “Umm, I’m going to get back to practice.”

“By all means.” Viktor stepped aside so Yuuri could stand and return to the floor.

Yuuri scanned the traffic flow of the busy floor and found his way to a spot on the opposite wall from where Viktor still stood. He popped in his headphones and with a deep breath, resumed what he and Sara had been working on before their break—waltz. With competition merely hours away, there was no sense in drilling basics. It was time for show, polish, and floorcraft, and Yuuri lost himself in it, his mind focused on navigating through the Latin couples whose choreography was difficult to predict because it didn’t travel around the floor like Standard. The fading notes of the music told him he should pause and he took a bow to the empty seats in front of him before turning to his side, where Sara would be. Viktor stood in her place. Somehow Yuuri wasn’t at all surprised.

“Your topline has improved.”

“Thank you. I’ve been working on it.”

“May I?”

Before Yuuri could answer, or even register what was happening, Viktor had invited himself into Yuuri’s space, dropped his knees and hips, extended his spine and head to the left, and placed his left hand on Yuuri’s right bicep. Yuuri instinctively wrapped his right arm under Viktor’s shoulder blade in return. All that remained was for him to take Viktor’s right hand. An explosion of possibilities erupted in Yuuri’s mind, everything from _Viktor wants to take me to bed_ to _Viktor is just checking up on how much I’ve improved since his lesson_. And then he looked into the worried eyes of the follower in his arms and decided none of those reasons mattered. He was being asked to lead, so he was going to lead.

Viktor wasn’t nearly as good at following as Sara—he was just slightly impatient, a hair too quick to make assumptions about the next figure—but that didn’t stop their waltz from being the smooth, controlled dance it was meant to be. A wolf-whistle from just off the floor mid way through a hover corté caught Yuuri off guard and he—and Viktor—remained on rise a full measure longer than intended. Claps and whistles were the norm in competition but certainly not in practice. He paused after lowering from the figure to find the source, only to see that pretty much everyone around them had stopped so they could watch two of the top Standard leaders in the country dance together. The practice hall erupted in clapping and cheering. Yuuri dropped the frame.

Viktor was delighted to have all eyes on them and promptly took a deep bow. From the corner of his eye, he was relieved to see Yuuri take a bow as well. He knew very well that people only watched when a couple looked good and never understood why beginners were so afraid to dance in front of others. Nobody even cares enough to watch unless you’re good, unless you catch their attention among the many couples on the floor. If you aren’t interesting, aren’t surprising, you simply get ignored. That’s all there is to it.

He and Yuuri still stood side by side at the edge of the floor, their hands nearly touching. Viktor’s heart pounded from both the thrill and also the loss. He didn’t want this to end, not yet. Desire overtook him, flinging him into a rash decision, one that he absently recognized wasn’t part of his plan. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care, not while there was such an opportunity, not while the crowd still encouraged them to continue and it would be difficult for Yuuri to refuse.

So he turned to face the man he desperately wanted to kiss, raised his left hand, presented his ribcage, and held his breath. _Please,_ he begged with his heart while throwing an overcompensating wink as the seconds ticked by. To his relief, not even moments later, his favorite leader connected, perfectly positioned to follow. It didn’t matter that their eyes didn’t meet before Yuuri stepped into the frame. Viktor was happy to take what he could get. And in this moment, with Yuuri secure in his hold, he was more than happy.

The cheers and squeals were deafening. Yuuri was well aware that people were now recording, if they hadn’t already been. But if Viktor wanted to dance with him, that meant maybe he’d forgiven Yuuri for Ohio. Or at the very least, honoring the request could be a way for him to repay the Russian for what happened. The selfish thrill that this was an opportunity to live out his dream from all those months ago, to find out how it feels to dance in Viktor’s arms—well, that was just an added bonus. He could ignore the attention.

The soft notes of a waltz reached them from someone’s laptop, clearly encouragement for them to dance. The volume was completely inadequate for the large space, but the room was so quiet, the floor empty just for them, that for the few minutes they danced, it was enough. And yet nothing else about those few minutes was nearly enough for either of them.

Viktor’s eyes widened in a mix of shock and delight as he led Yuuri through a few basic combinations. The connection, the freedom of movement was beyond anything he’d ever experienced with a partner. As they continued with more advanced figures, Viktor concluded that Yuuri was a revelation, allowing him get longer strides with less effort while responding beautifully to his impulsive leads. He immediately abandoned all longing for that someday perfect partner he’d spent years dreaming about, knowing he’d finally found him. Now if only Yuuri would feel the same.

The waltz isn’t a sensual dance by any stretch of the imagination. It doesn’t have the obvious passion of the tango or the slinky flirtation of the foxtrot. It’s pure, innocent even. And as Viktor and Yuuri travelled the floor, spinning and weaving, it became damning. With each step, their bodies ached for more contact as their legs passed between each other’s, thighs touching, causing their breaths to quicken despite the slow tempo of the song. Thankfully, as the only couple on the floor, Viktor didn’t have to think about floorcraft, which meant he could direct the few remaining functioning parts of his brain to actual dancing.

Yuuri noticed the shift in Viktor’s lead at the same time he started fighting internally for his own control. In that moment he knew that it wasn’t only _his_ hands that were eager to break frame to explore and not only _his_ neck that strained against the urge to turn his head to gaze into his partner’s eyes. The waltz was a damning dance indeed. And yet it all felt so natural.

When the song eventually came to an end, Viktor reluctantly spun Yuuri out for a bow to wild applause. They finally made eye contact for the first time since dancing, both with equal expressions of awe, knowing they were able draw out the best from each other when they danced. Viktor tried very hard to not read too much into Yuuri’s flushed cheeks and heaving chest, but failed completely, feeling the wide smile spread across his face all on its own. Yuuri returned it, small and timid.

They nodded to each other before rejoining their actual partners, who were also clapping enthusiastically from the side, Mila having arrived some time ago. Viktor didn’t want to let go. Not yet, perhaps not ever. But he did. After all, this was the plan. To let Yuuri decide the next step, to meet him where he’s at.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting in front of coaches and judges: When you a reach a certain level, there’s a huge benefit to supplementary coaching for expanding your overall knowledge and quality of dancing. It just so happens that the best coaches are also judges because that’s how the dance world works. So _completely hypothetically_ (*clears throat*), you could buy a lesson with a top coach only for that same coach be one of the judges at your next competition.
> 
> Practice floor etiquette is for Latin dancers to stay in the center and Standard dancers to stay on the outside because of the how the dances travel. 
> 
> Lead/follow dynamics in Standard are a little different than in other styles because of the constant closed hold and body contact. There’s no opportunity for a clean reset and a single error can have a domino effect. The end game is always the survival of the couple. Both partners constantly compensate for each other and for changing internal factors within the couple like balance, position, etc and external factors like other dancers on floor. The leader’s job is to read the situation and decide the best course of action in the moment (continue with known choreography or do something different). The follower’s job is to wait for the lead because initiating an action too early, even when knowing it’s coming, will kill the couple (like Phichit and Ketty in chapter 5). But once the follower is sure, he/she has to move with grace and power to help the leader execute. There’s obviously more to it, but that’s the gist. This is why Sara loves Yuuri’s responsive leading (ch 2), why Yakov won’t give Yuri open choreography (ch 9), and why Viktor isn’t great at following.
> 
> ***  
> Next chapter: Yuuri takes the next step. Mila makes a decision.


	11. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri takes the next step. Mila makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fan position: A position in rumba and cha cha where the partners are away from each other with a one-hand connection and the follower brings the feet together in a sexy and feminine way before stepping into the next figure.  
>   
> 

“Thank you, competitors! Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for our Open Professional Standard Finalists!” The emcee’s deep voice roared through the ballroom, enthusiastic applause quickly filling it in reply. All six couples made a show of bowing to the audience one final time before stepping off the floor and out of the spotlights.

“What was that just now? You kept dropping your elbow.” Viktor gave the feedback to his partner the moment their feet touched carpet. There was no hint of anger or judgement. Just the facts. Like usual.

“I know,” Mila practically hissed back through her tight smile. He was right. He was always right. And she hated it every single time, preferring to hear the same criticism from Yakov, from _her coach_ , rather than from _her partner_ , because despite Yakov’s brusque style, his words never stung this deeply, never made her question her worth. But Yakov wasn’t here and wouldn’t review the video with them until days later, so she took a deep breath to steady herself.

She had no right to be upset with Viktor, not when he’d given her this chance to boost her career. He was a future World Champion, after all. And while Mila hoped she would be, too, she realized some time between Nationals and Ohio that it wouldn’t be with Viktor as her partner. Her guilt at not delivering was starting to mount at a faster pace than the demands of competing at this level, where every detail mattered, the judges just as critical of the crystals in her hair and the color of her lipstick as they were of the dancing itself.

By the time they returned to the floor for awards, Mila wore a genuine smile again, thanks in no small part to Sara for the distraction. The top two remaining couples already knew the results, as did everyone else, but they enthusiastically wished each other good luck just the same. And then waited.

“In second place, placing second in waltz—” Mila instantly paled. The emcee only announces results for each individual dance when it’s not a clean sweep. Somewhere she had cost them a dance.

“—and first in quickstep… from California—” Quickstep. Her dropped elbow cost them the quickstep. Viktor wouldn’t outright say anything, but she knew he’d be disappointed. It showed after every competition, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

The hug, she expected. Along with the kiss on the cheek. What she didn’t expect, however, the moment they were announced as winners, was for the hug to be so tight, and for the kiss to be three. Viktor hadn’t reacted this way since Embassy. It was enough of a shock that she absently drifted through the bows, kisses, and poses of the awards, unable process her partner’s reaction. When she did finally glance up at him through her thick false lashes and saw the genuine heart-shaped smile—one she hadn’t seem on him in far too long—she swallowed down her insecurities for another day.

Viktor was absolutely giddy with joy to place second in quickstep, to be challenged by his future husband. Between this and the influx of approving social media comments on his and Yuuri’s earlier waltz, Mila basically had to restrain him from prancing into the after party where Chris was conveniently waiting to intercept. She gladly left the men to their own devices.

“It’s good to see you so happy, my friend. Perhaps I should be congratulating you on something other than your win?” The blonde raised a questioning brow.

Viktor fixed his gaze on Yuuri across the room and smiled. There was no doubt. “Soon.”

Yuuri had two primary coping mechanisms in life: avoidance and dance. And since Sara wouldn’t let him skip tonight’s party— _It’s Valentine’s Day! You can’t spend it alone!_ she insisted—he had to resort to the latter. Luckily, there were plenty of willing partners to help him subconsciously process what the hell happened this morning as he lost himself in one casual social dance after another, the evening blurry despite being sober.

What the hell happened indeed? Leading Viktor was smooth and lovely, exactly as Yuuri expected from such a talented dancer. But following Viktor was another matter entirely. It was sublime, heavenly—it made him nearly lose the ability to make normal decisions, like a manifestation of his desire for katsudon through dance. Except it wasn’t. Because there was a different kind of heat in that dance, one that had him admitting that Drunk Yuuri may have been onto something. And one that confirmed the desire was mutual.

Yuuri knew he didn’t want Viktor just for the night. Despite the raw attraction, he wanted to know him as a person, not just as the darling champion. He wanted to know why Viktor brought his poodle on his teaching tour, why he seemed so attention starved, why he was still interested in Yuuri. In short, he wanted more. But what more could they possibly have? Anything resembling a normal relationship was out of the question, not with the distance, with all the training and travel. And it’s not like Yuuri had the time, energy, or inclination to date anyway. But how could he just let this go?

He was about to allow himself be pulled into another dance when he caught Viktor and Chris chatting from the corner of his eye, casually enjoying each other’s company. And suddenly he knew exactly what more he and Viktor could have. Promptly excusing himself from the floor, he walked toward the Russian with purpose, determination hardening the soft features of his face. 

“Congratulations again on your win.”

“Congratulations on your quickstep.” Viktor smirked. He’d have to remember to thank Chris for leaving as he soon as he saw Yuuri approach.

“Do you mind if we go somewhere else to talk?”

How could Viktor refuse those glinting cinnamon eyes? “Not at all. Lead the way.”

And Yuuri did, right out of the ballroom and to a quiet sitting area, where he turned to face Viktor and softly began, “I’m sorry about Ohio. About how I acted at the party. But mostly about how I ran out on you the next day. You didn’t deserve that.” He paused for a deep breath before continuing more firmly, “I got scared. And I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispered, tempted to pull the man into a crushing embrace, touched by the apology.

“I know we’ll continue to see each other at competitions, and our partners are friends, so I hope you can forgive me. And… and maybe we can be friends, too.” _Friends._ That was the more that Yuuri could realistically have.

Viktor blinked, dumbfounded. His plan had backfired spectacularly, sending his heart reeling. Or had it? He desperately wanted more than friends. But he supposed that it was better than not being friends. Relationships were built on friendship, so it was still a step in the right direction even if it wasn’t the step he wanted Yuuri to take. And friendships can become more, right? He’d have to hope, and wait. As long as it takes.

“I’d like that.” Viktor quickly recovered, smiling and gazing directly into Yuuri’s increasingly widening eyes as he stepped into the other man’s space and tugged at his hand. “As your friend, I should have your number.” He placed his phone into Yuuri’s slightly trembling palm.

* * *

Motivation has nothing on inspiration. It’s the difference between dragging yourself into the studio each day because you want that win, because you know you love to dance—even if your love hasn’t been returned in far too long—and feeling like your heart will burst if you have to wait even an extra second to step onto the floor, like your whole being belongs in the ballroom and nowhere else. 

In the weeks leading up to Blackpool, Viktor had never been more inspired.

After a month of awkward text messaging with Yuuri, the two settled into a comfortable rhythm of sharing photos on a near daily basis, usually of their pups, and on occasion of other bits from their lives. And then came the truly magical day when Viktor received an eight second video of Yuuri setting up his frame with a request for feedback. He barely managed to talk himself down from calling the costume sponsor and ordering matching tail suits right then and there, but not before he decided on velvet. Perhaps Yuuri's could have rhinestones on the back.

His practices with Mila became more productive. She stopped dropping her elbow in quickstep and started spending more time on solo practice. They choreographed a new waltz, one he secretly may have wished to dance with Yuuri instead.

Even Yura was bringing him joy and Viktor marveled at the young dancer switching his feet out of fan position. “I see you’re practicing the follower’s steps.”

“Shut up.” The kitten blushed before defending himself, “Only because it’s more of a challenge. The leader’s steps are so boring in comparison.”

Viktor simply smiled. He dared not bring up that the reason the leader’s steps are simpler was because they had the job of leading. One can’t spin, dip, or otherwise showcase their partner without being a stable base for the couple. 

“And because you promised me choreography if I learned them. I have a tryout next week, so you better not forget while you’re off at Blackpool,” Yura spat out the reminder as if it were a threat.

“I look forward to meeting her.” Viktor truly hoped this girl could get past the blonde’s rough exterior. As entertaining as it was watching Yakov dance with Yura during lessons, the boy needed a consistent partner and soon, before he stagnated or quit altogether.

Instead of sitting in the first class lounge, waiting to board their flight to England, Viktor and Mila sat in a vet's clinic, waiting for Makkachin to come out of surgery, his hand gripping hers far too tightly, blaming himself and praying that his dear companion would be okay. How could he have let this happen to his best friend? What if she didn’t make it? No, she had to pull through. She _had_ to. The possibility of anything else was too much to process. He was already falling apart as is, silent tears leaving streaks on their way down his haggard face.

Thank god for Mila. She allowed him to crush her hand without complaint, murmuring comforting words in his ear and rubbing his back in reassurance, never leaving his side until Makkachin was back at home. Viktor didn’t even notice when she slipped out of his apartment while he fussed over his poor, recovering girl until he heard the sounds of groceries being unpacked and carryout getting set out on the dining table.

A few sleepless nights later, the two of them watched the livestream together, with a tired but healthy poodle at Viktor’s side. By then, his relief at Makka’s recovery had faded into frustration, though the lesson would not be forgotten—never leave food out on the counter. Mila assured him over and over that she wasn’t upset at missing the competition. And maybe he wouldn’t be, either, if not for the chance to see Yuuri again. He had tried to ignore the disappointment he felt when, days earlier, his phone buzzed with text messages asking when they’d be getting in, but it only turned into a dull ache for what he didn't have, followed by defeat. By now, Viktor was used to not getting what he truly wanted. 

Yuuri and Sara ended up in 14th place, tied with an Italian couple. Would he and Mila have even made the final? It should have bothered Viktor more that he no longer cared. But his inspiration took another hit when Yura’s new, promising partnership imploded not even five weeks later, long before they even made it to the competition floor.

* * *

The sky was clear on the August day when Mila worked up the courage to finally have this conversation. She and Viktor had just finished their joint private pilates session and sat down for lunch at a nearby cafe. Her partner had instantly loved the Reformer when she introduced it to him early in their partnership, and his enthusiasm was the confidence boost she needed, instant reassurance that she was good enough for the National Champion. How naive she’d been.

“Vitya,” she began with a heavy heart, her decision made months ago in a veterinarian’s waiting room. “Can we talk?”

“Of course. What’s wrong?”

“After Nationals, let’s end this. You’ve done more than enough for me.”

They never explicitly said it, but both always knew their partnership would be short-term, just enough to set up Mila for a successful career, while giving Viktor the chance to figure out what he wanted to do next. He just didn’t expect the end to come so soon, and certainly not before they discussed tryouts for new partners with each other. He hoped there was at least that much respect between them.

Mila, however, started crumbling under the pressure almost immediately. She fought hard to stay true to her sassy, confident self, but it was hard to maintain when it was painfully obvious how despondent Viktor was in their results. When they withdrew from Blackpool because Makkachin needed emergency care from eating some off-limits human food, all Mila could feel was relief. She didn’t want to go to Blackpool, dreaded it even, because she didn’t want to disappoint Viktor yet again.

Viktor was already numb to the pain of a partner leaving him, having happened so many times before. At least Mila gave him a heads up, a chance to dance at the competitions they’ve already entered. It didn’t stop the tears forming in the corners of his eyes, but he offered her a half-hearted smile anyway. “So who’s the lucky man?”

“I don’t have another partner. I haven’t had any tryouts, or even looked at all.”

“Oh.” _She’d rather not compete at all than continue dancing with me?_ That cut a knife deep into Viktor’s chest. Maybe Yakov was right. Maybe he should have stuck with figure skating. Then he wouldn’t repeatedly put himself through this pain.

“All I know is that I’m not ready to dance at your level, yet. I’m sorry I made you take a chance on me and then I couldn’t deliver.” Mila's lip quivered. She was visibly just as upset and he couldn’t bring himself to be mad. Just wounded. 

“So you’ll go back to Amateur?”

“No. I still want this, but I know now I need to take my time. Yakov is starting another cohort for the teaching certification. I’d like to do that. And who knows, maybe I’ll take pity on some poor franchise studio dancer who’s ready to take things seriously?”

Viktor barked out a laugh at that and pulled her into a hug. Yakov hated the franchise model. He only hired instructors with competition experience and dictated who was or wasn’t allowed to take on Pro/Am students—Viktor and Mila weren’t allowed. Even the group classes were focused on drills and technique. No beginner level drop-in classes or wedding couple nonsense. His studio was for serious dancers.

“Thank you for understanding. And for having done so much for me.”

They withdrew from Embassy. It was completely unnecessary to go through that extra stress and travel the week before Nationals, the competition where it would really count. They expected to place in the top 3, and it would be a fine way to announce their split. A high finish would also help them be more attractive to future partners in front of the highest concentration of top dancers in the country. 

It was an odd, somewhat empowering feeling going into a competition knowing it would be the last for them. None of Viktor’s previous partners had given him such a courtesy. Of course, having withdrawn from two major competitions within a span of a few months had already sent rumors flying. Viktor could brush them off for now, but hated knowing that soon he’d have to admit they were true. That yes, he was splitting from a partner yet again. That he really was a playboy.

But he didn’t want to be. He never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mila’s experience was based on one of my past partnerships where my partner was significantly older and a much higher level dancer than me. I was excited and eager to prove myself at the start, but it soon got to be overwhelming for many reasons. We agreed to end it a week or so before our second competition, and danced there knowing it would be our last.
> 
> Franchise studio instructors: The big name franchise studios and even many independent ballroom studios like to hire athletic, good-looking young people with no ballroom experience and train them in how to teach dance and, more importantly, how to sell dance lessons so students keep coming back. Eventually, when they want to compete seriously, these instructors end up facing a harsh reality that their skills are way below par. But some do put in the work and go on to be successful. It’s just a very different path from those who start competing as amateurs. 
> 
> I don’t actually know of any studios that operate as strictly as Yakov’s, but there is definitely a difference between those that cater to social vs competitive dancers. 
> 
> Here’s a good video from last year’s USDC (Nationals) if you want to get a realistic feel for competitions. It includes the Standard semi-final, final, plus some “behind the scenes”. The winners are couple 207, Victor and Anastasia: https://youtu.be/U6KvhKHSdzk
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri and Viktor each handle Nationals in their own way.


	12. Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor each handle Nationals in their own way.

Viktor Nikiforov was a terrible liar. _I’d like that_ , he’d said when Yuuri asked him to be friends. But the intense, hypnotizing way Viktor’s eyes fixed themselves onto Yuuri’s while they exchanged numbers was anything but friendly. It was desire mixed with desperation, the nervous air between them as electric as their earlier waltz, Viktor ready and waiting for an opportunity to pounce if Yuuri were to just say the word. Yuuri trembled, afraid that he just might. Because he desperately wanted to know what it would feel like to have Viktor’s mouth on his, to touch bare skin, to…

_No._

Yuuri had made his choice. Friends. Because he wanted more than a meaningless night, and anything else was impossible. So he fought against the urge to give Viktor even a hint of an opportunity and breathed a sigh of relief when they finally parted ways. It was a miracle Sara didn’t have to carry him back to their room, his legs as steady as overcooked noodles.

Their first attempts at communication weren’t exactly smooth—timid text messages that were little more than perfunctory _how are yous_ and abandoned attempts at deeper replies, both men afraid to push the other, unsure of the boundaries of their relationship or how to form a friendship through such exchanges. It continued this way for nearly a month until Phichit finally caught on to the absurdity of the situation and promptly swiped Yuuri’s phone to take matters into his own hands. Literally.

With a few taps and a smug grin, Phichit returned his friend’s phone, completely disregarding the horror on Yuuri’s face.

“Peach! What did you do?”

“You’ll thank me later.” The younger dancer winked and calmly walked away as if Yuuri’s world wasn’t suddenly crumbling around him. 

_> > Let’s have a poodle contest! Vicchan was extra cute today! [image]_

Later turned out to be in two days, Yuuri and Viktor suddenly having fallen into an easy rhythm of sharing poodle photos and lightly teasing each other, which Yuuri refused to acknowledge as flirting. Because, really, Viktor was just a silly, silly man, one he was more than happy to call a friend. The Russian was the only one he knew who complained that Latin shirts get rhinestones but tail suits don’t. Or who understood his deep adoration of the foxtrot. Or who gave unsolicited advice on the most random things, from dog shampoo to toplines.

Truthfully, Yuuri no longer needed Viktor’s advice on his topline. Not anymore. Not when he and Sara have been paying ridiculous amounts of money to a retired World Champion to work on it with them—with him—for the last few months. But he just couldn’t help himself when Viktor made an offhand comment about a young dancer at his own studio. Yuuri was proud of his progress. He wanted to show off, to say, _I’m coming for you, Viktor. You’ll see at Blackpool._ He couldn’t very well say it in _words_ , so he said it with a video instead, his face red from anticipation, excitement, and embarrassment while nodding to Phichit to send it, unable to do it himself.

 _It wasn't flirting_ , he insisted.

Viktor and Mila never made it to Blackpool. When Yuuri learned why, his heart broke. Twice. The first was simple empathy. He’s been lucky that nothing has ever happened to Vicchan during competition—or ever—and Yuuri’s mind took this opportunity as an invitation to spin cruel scenarios for him to obsess over. It wasn’t a surprise that the text messages started coming less often after that. Clearly Viktor was upset about what happened. The second time Yuuri’s heart broke was when he realized the messages weren’t going to come anymore at all.

* * *

Yuuri knew that he and Sara would make the final at Nationals. Based on their recent competitions, they could even expect to place as high as third. The rational part of him _knew_ this fact going into the preliminary rounds. Yet every _other_ part of him went into high alert the moment the couples for the final were confirmed.

It wasn’t the familiar kind of panic he hated, but at least understood. No, this one was new. Quiet, insidious. It had slowly started building months ago, as far back as last year’s Embassy when Yuuri and Sara first felt the regret of not even entering Nationals. And now it’s had a year to fester, to remind Yuuri how they should have been here last year, to convince him how they have to make up for it now by proving how far they’ve come.

In this moment, Yuuri’s brain was mercifully unaware these thoughts even bothered him. Sure, he had given them bits of attention in passing here and there throughout the past weeks, and maybe they were accompanied by some occasional labored breathing or an erratic fluttering of the heart, but they weren’t present now, let alone racing through his synapses like they usually might. His mind was blank.

The loss of control over his body more than made up for it. Hands numb and shaking. Chest constricted. Dull pain in the sternum. On his knees, folded over himself. Desperately trying to breathe through it, to swallow down the ugly sobs. He was too young for a heart attack. What the hell was happening? The rational part of his brain kicked in. Even though this was different, even though his normally overactive mind was now quiet, he understood what it was. And he had never been more scared. Because it’s never been like this. And what if he was wrong?

They still had twenty minutes before they needed to be on-deck, plenty of time for Sara to finish changing dresses and refreshing her makeup. Plenty of time for…

“Yuuri! What’s wrong?” Sara rushed to his side as soon as she noticed him.

“I… I just need a minute.” _I can’t let her worry. I can’t let her down._

“Stay there. I’m calling for help.”

“No! I’ll be okay. Soon!” _I hope._ “Please stay with me.”

The smart thing, of course, would have been to go to the emergency room to make sure he really was okay. There they would have told him his blood pressure had shot up to a staggering 210/140, but not to worry because the EKG was normal. And then he’d spend the next few hours getting bloodwork and chest x-rays and laying in a hospital bed hooked up to an annoyingly beeping machine, exhausted, impatient, waiting for the confirmation that it was _just_ a panic attack. Then he’d be instructed to follow up with both his primary doctor and psychiatrist within a week and to otherwise take it easy for a couple of days. It would have been disappointing to miss Nationals again, but at least he would have been assured his good health.

Yuuri was too stubborn to be smart. And Sara followed his lead, even with this. Miraculously, he felt relaxed, his smile genuine, by the time they walked down the steps from the stage to the floor when the emcee called their names, introducing them as finalists to the audience. They skipped and hopped without effort to a cheeky quickstep for their presentation before yielding the floor to the next couple. It was fine.

When it came time for all the couples to reenter the floor for the actual competition, it was no longer fine. Yuuri couldn’t even spare a glance at Viktor to see how his friend was doing today. He was too wrapped up in trying to calm himself, his hands suddenly numb and shaky again. _It’ll be okay. Once the music starts, it’ll be okay,_ he lied to himself. As they took the floor, he found it to be solid under their feet and that in itself was a relief, because he wasn’t sure how much he trusted his body right now. Yet somehow they made it, somehow they found their place for their first dance, the waltz.

The music started and Yuuri did everything he was supposed to do. He smiled at Sara, invited her into his frame, and began dancing. It felt off somehow, but he was so grateful his body was moving at all that that he couldn’t care about whatever technique he was missing in that moment. He was probably too stiff, or didn’t have enough sway, or…

“Slow down,” Sara begged through her strained smile, her lips as beautiful as always. _Slow down?_ Crap. They were off time. _He_ was off time. Crap, crap, crap. He knew there was little Sara could do about it except be off time with him. And then he heard her faintly count, “One, two, three. One, two, three.” How she managed to do that with her smile intact, he may never know. But he was eternally grateful for the reprieve. He needed a figure that would let him reset his mind. A hesitation change would do.

Yuuri tried, he really did, managing two measures before he fell out of count again. But the music just wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t give him an opportunity to just hear it. He didn’t even like this song—why would they pick this?—and maybe that’s why his body insisted on rushing through it. Even with Sara’s gentle counts, his brain rebelled against him, refusing to listen. He just wanted this awful dance to hurry up and end. But it refused. The music kept going and going and going. It was the longest two minutes of his life.

When it was finally over, a floodgate had opened. The tension left his body. Everything snapped back into place and he knew— _he knew_ —he’d be able to count again. He almost laughed to himself as the realization dawned. The panic came to prove a point, and it had. It built up inside him for so long that he didn’t know it was there until it ensnared him at the most crucial moment, taking Sara down with him. It won. And when it was done with him, it left, a self-fulfilling prophecy having accomplished its task.

But then came another realization. He was standing under spotlights, next to a beautiful and patient partner, in front of a friendly audience. They were cheering. He and Sara would get automatic last place in the waltz for being off time. But waltz was only once dance. They had four more chances.

Sara took his hands and gently tugged him to a new place on the floor for tango. Anyone watching them would know something was wrong. The follower would never place the couple for the start of a new dance. She didn’t care. Yuuri needed her. With a final reassuring squeeze of his hands, she stepped away with faith that he would manage the rest. 

The tango was just as much of a mess as the waltz, but for different reasons. The timing was fine, but the actions were too jerky, Yuuri’s body still recalibrating from the release of nerves. It was never their best dance, anyway. 

He finally pulled together during the simple and steady Viennese waltz, and they both breathed a sigh of relief going into the foxtrot. It was far from their best, safe. Too safe. Yuuri barely deviated from their routine, too scared of being off time again to take advantage of the music. The quickstep, which had now become their strongest dance, felt almost normal, their smiles radiant from the joy of dancing and from the knowledge this ordeal would soon be over.

* * *

Viktor led Mila to line up for the awards ceremony. There was something freeing in dancing today knowing there wouldn’t be a next time together. He allowed himself to not care about the results, to take risks he normally wouldn’t take, to be greedy. He danced for himself, the way he wanted, and if Mila’s abilities limited his full expression, there was no reason to be upset or disappointed because it was already over. He made the most of it, knowing it would be months until he could be on the competition floor again. Hopefully it would only be months.

Shockingly, Yuuri and Sara finished sixth. What happened? By Viktor’s prediction, they should have at least been fourth. In contrast, he was not at all shocked by his own 3rd place. Same as last year. The cynic in him would say nothing has changed, except it has. He’s changed. Mila has also changed. But their dancing together hasn’t. The simple truth is that some couples only go so far together, no matter how hard they work, while others rise to the top seemingly from nowhere, when the match just works. Like Yuuri and Sara, who weren’t even here last year. So where did that leave Viktor?

Last night, Mila made him an offer she probably didn’t even realize how precious. _We don’t have to announce that we’re splitting, you know. I’ve already decided I’m not going to look for a new partner yet._ It meant that Viktor had some say, that he was spared from having to fabricate a story to his fans, to the dance community. He could wait until he was ready, whenever that might be. Definitely not yet.

An hour and three drinks later, he was ready. Except he was alone at the dimly-lit hotel bar instead of at the after party, and there was nobody around to tell. Not that it would be much different when he returned home. Except Makkachin would be there and she’d listen. She was so good like that, but she wasn’t here right now. Well, then, another drink it was going to be.

He already lost count of his tab, the drinks now flavorless and the world a tad swirly, when he felt someone sit next to him and immediately huffed in annoyance. Wasn’t it obvious he was brooding? And he’d rather stay here to do it than up in his lonely suite, thank you very much. He would just have to politely ask this person to move to one of the many other empty chairs.

Oh.

It was Yuuri who sat next to him. Who was still sitting next to him, with those gorgeous chocolate eyes looking back at his.

“Yuuri!” Viktor threw himself at his friend, his crush, his inspiration, his everything. He’d withdrawn into himself so much after Makkachin, after Blackpool, convinced he was alone. But seeing Yuuri again, finally, right here, so close, he lost all control and enveloped the younger dancer in a desperate embrace, pulling him in tighter until they could barely breathe.

Yuuri’s heart broke a third time. He was in Viktor's arms again after so many months of silence, but this was so very wrong. There was no tease, no thrill, no warmth building in his chest and tinting his cheeks.

He forced himself to pry away from the embrace that at another time would have been cherished, but now felt entirely improper. “Viktor, how long have you been here drinking?”

“I don’t know! But I’m so happy you’re here!”

Yuuri allowed Viktor to drape himself over him as they closed out the bar tab and stumbled back to Viktor’s room, content to listen to the endearing drunken babbling. It was nice to take care of someone else after this evening’s disaster, a small glimmer of validation that he wasn’t a complete waste of a person. He knew he’d have to beg Sara for forgiveness later. But for now, he enjoyed being dragged along, out of the elevator, by the Russian’s hand. If circumstances were different, maybe could even pretend he wasn't hurting from being so close to his friend again.

He wasn’t surprised to find himself in a suite instead of a standard room and darted immediately for the bottled water when Viktor staggered to the bathroom, bringing it with him to the bedroom. It was easy to guess which bed was Viktor’s and which was Mila’s based on the articles left on the nightstands and Yuuri sat down on Viktor’s to wait. He would make him drink the whole bottle before he left, knowing the man would long be passed out by the time Mila returned from the party.

The Viktor who emerged from the bathroom wasn’t the same as the one who went in. He was sullen, remnants of hastily wiped tears gracing his cheekbones clearly visible despite only the light of a single lamp illuminating the room. Yuuri held out the water, his expression firm. But instead of taking it, Viktor crumpled onto the bed and began to sniffle into Yuuri’s shoulder.

Eventually they found themselves laying side by side on top of the covers, Viktor’s face buried in Yuuri’s warm chest, protective arms wrapped around his back. He cried freely. They stayed that way for some time, until the tears no longer came, and he was finally able to confess with a whisper, “Mila and I split. This was our last competition.”

A year ago, Yuuri would have made a snide remark about the darling playboy, though probably not to Viktor’s face. Tonight, he just held him tighter, rubbing his back, carding fingers through the platinum hair he’d long wanted to touch. And when Viktor’s breathing at last evened out, exhaustion claiming him, Yuuri dared to place a feather light kiss to the crown of his head.

“Mmm… Yuuri… Be my partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finalist introductions and presentation: For finals at larger competitions, the couples get announced one at a time and dance a short solo presentation dance prior to the real competition. 
> 
> Hesitation change: A basic figure where the second half doesn’t travel. This makes it easy to hang out for an extra measure to create contrast, build internal tension for the next figure, or in Yuuri’s case, to take time to count. 
> 
> Many couples struggle with tango because it has fundamentally different technique from the other 4 dances. 
> 
> I painfully remember a competition where I was off time in one of the dances and my partner had to whisper in my ear for me to slow down. It was our first competition together and I was a ball of nerves and clearly not paying attention to the music or to him. Thankfully we still had a good partnership and many more competitions after that.
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri and Sara discuss their partnership. Yura makes a demand.


	13. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Sara discuss their partnership. Yura makes a demand.

Yuuri gaped at the man in his arms, suspicious. Was he really asleep? Viktor’s words, though soft and muffled, boomed in Yuuri’s mind and he ached to know the amount of truth and sobriety behind them. _Be my partner._ That fervent thought and all it implied had never dared cross his mind before. Fond memories of dancing with Viktor and yearning to do so again, of course. But not a partnership. A partnership was crazy. And yet, in the span of two rapid heartbeats, that thought found such a comfortable spot for itself inside Yuuri’s brain that he had no hope of it ever leaving.

“I wish I could,” Yuuri whispered to the beautiful mess of a human being, concluding he was indeed asleep after an experimental nudge. The outright dismissal, however, didn’t stop him from continuing to quietly lie there, watching Viktor’s chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath. He reached over to turn off the lamp. The last hour was a rollercoaster. Seeing Viktor again, feeling his embrace, seeing his breakdown, hearing his earnest request. Yuuri should have been overwhelmed, resentful even. But no, he was entranced. _Just a few more minutes._

A rumble in his stomach said otherwise. He ignored it.

Yuuri had practically collapsed the moment he and Sara returned to their room after awards. The day was just too much, his body desperate for sleep and recovery. She managed to get him out of costume before he crawled into bed and joined him soon after, holding him tenderly, whispering kind words he didn’t deserve as he drifted off. When he woke, it was to a note that she went to make an appearance at the party, but would be back soon.

The nap helped tremendously. Yuuri almost felt normal. And hungry. It was too late for room service, so he made himself as presentable as he could manage and embarked on his quest for a meal. That’s when he found Viktor, who he hoped was still his friend despite the months of radio silence.

The idea of a partnership crept back into Yuuri’s thoughts as he tried to relax in near darkness. It mocked him, showing him an impossible future of happiness, of _more_ , insisting it was there for the taking. After all, Yuuri had kissed Viktor and in turn, Viktor wanted to date, their divine waltz was as good as any tryout…

Yuuri’s eyes shot wide open in alarm, suddenly remembering that Viktor had favorited his dancesportpartner.com profile months before any of that happened.

He scrambled out of the bed, careful not to disturb the other man, who was definitely just his friend, and nothing else. Using the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains, he placed the long-forgotten bottle of water on the nightstand and shuffled out of the bedroom, out of the suite, and back to the safety of his own room. There, he found a protein bar in Sara’s bag, inhaled it without guilt, and promptly fell back asleep, giving no further thought to the night’s revelations. It was too much to process.

Yuuri expected to struggle getting up the following morning. But he was surprisingly well-rested, his head clear, and though he was still unhappy about last night’s performance, he was ready to move forward. Ohio would be here soon enough. He just hoped Sara would be ready to move forward, too.

Thankfully, their flight back was that day, having no reason to stick around for the remainder of the competition. However, the early departure time left them without opportunity to _really_ talk, and they endured uncomfortable silence while getting ready. Now sitting next to each other, well into their flight, Yuuri wondered how to broach the conversation.

“So, how are you, really?” _Damn it._ She went first.

“Better. I’m sorry.” He desperately wanted to know if their partnership was still there, but those words, of course, were much harder than an apology. He’d work up to them.

“No. You have nothing to be sorry about. I just want you to be okay.”

“But I lost count!”

“You danced through a panic attack, Yuuri. Do you understand that?” Yuuri held Sara’s intense gaze before her eyes dropped, “I’m sorry that I let you.”

She’s blaming herself? It didn’t make sense. The silence sat heavy between them, unbroken, until the seatbelt sign lit up. Turbulence.

“Thank you. For understanding what I needed, for helping us.” He didn’t deserve it.

“Oh, please! I used to have to count for Mickey all the time. When we were kids, I’d backlead him, too. And he’d get us in trouble all the time with crazy alignments trying to avoid other couples. It was my pleasure to be there for you. That’s what this is all about it, isn’t it?”

Yuuri allowed himself a smile. And some bravery. “So you’re not leaving me?”

He didn’t miss the beat of hesitation before Sara replied, “Of course not.” The sigh that followed had Yuuri squirming. He waited for the worst.

“I didn’t want to say anything because nothing happened. But do you remember the couple we had dinner with at Blackpool? The Italian pair we tied with?”

Nodding.

“They recently split.”

Fear. Inability to breathe. Perhaps Yuuri could get that oxygen mask to drop somehow.

“I was invited to a tryout. But I declined. I’m staying right here, Yuuri. With you.”

“With me?”

“With you.”

They managed an awkward hug, twisting toward each other in their seats, Sara planting a chaste kiss on Yuuri’s cheek, just to see him smile.

They returned to their own distractions after that, Sara listening to music to fall asleep, Yuuri attempting to play his Switch while guilt coursed through his veins. She gave up a chance with another partner to stay with Yuuri and last night’s disaster was her reward. It wasn’t fair. She deserved so much better. And yet he selfishly _wanted_ her to stay, wanted the security of a partner.

Because dancing with Viktor was unimaginable, no matter how thrilling. The mere thought of a _partnership, of more than a partnership,_ made his heart race in anticipation, in desire. But who knows if Viktor even remembered asking Yuuri to be his partner, or if he meant it. But then why did he favorite Yuuri’s profile all those months ago? Had he really been interested for so long? In dancing? Or perhaps it was always just dating? Some people did use the partner matching service for more than dancing. But with the distance… It just didn’t make any sense. None of this made any—

“I want you to do something for me,” Sara’s hand on his arm along with her gentle voice freed him from his labyrinth of thoughts. “Go home for a few days. See your family. Make peace with your past. You’ve been ignoring it for too long.”

Yuuri frowned. His first instinct was _no_. But as they sat in silence, the flight attendant coming their way with drinks, he found himself closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before giving a shallow nod.

“Okay.”

* * *

It has been four—no five… Maybe? It has been several days since Viktor came home from Nationals, with third place and no partner. And just as many since he’s seen a dance floor. Without Mila to pull him into practice, he’s had little reason to go into the studio. Or anywhere else. He was alone, without purpose. Again.

Makkachin proved once more to be his best friend, serving any array of roles: alarm clock, walk enforcer, body pillow, weighted blanket, and perhaps his favorite, face licker. And while she couldn’t give any advice beyond the occasional grunt, she was also a fantastic listener. Certainly better than Chris, who insisted he should just dance with Yuuri. As if Yuuri would even talk to him again after he callously threw away their friendship, their inklings of more than friendship. 

It’s not like Viktor didn’t know this was coming, what rejection would feel like. He’s had plenty of time to prepare and plenty of past experiences. And yet he couldn’t explain this new heaviness, the sheer exhaustion, so different from before. Perhaps he should just grow up and abandon his childhood dream once and for all? Because who would even want to take a chance on him now? Maybe he should just teach full-time and forget about competing? It would probably be for the best. The mere thought of another forced partnership was completely unappealing, repulsive even. 

Three loud thuds to the front door alerted Viktor to a visitor and he barely lifted his head from his favorite pillow before dropping it again, too comfortable sprawling on the couch. It was a courtesy knock anyway, he assumed, and was proven correct when the lock turned and an angry teenager stomped in.

It was the first time Viktor regretted giving Yura a key to his apartment. The blonde currently spitting vitriol with his emerald eyes was nothing like the lost, innocent boy of years ago. The boy who didn’t have anywhere safe to go when his mother failed to pick him up from practice at night. Viktor lived within walking distance from the studio and the two shared dinners more often than they should have.

“The hell?”

Viktor managed to open one eye to glare in reply. A warning that he wasn’t in the mood, in case his stained t-shirt, unwashed hair, and uncharacteristic stubble weren’t enough of a clue.

“Yeah, well, at least Viktor Nikiforov isn’t dead or whatever. That means you can make good on your promise.”

“And what promise might that be?” His winced internally at the way his words came out, saccharine, with a bite of impatience. Yura was a good kid and didn't deserve it. But if the blonde was offended, he didn’t show it.

“Choreography, asshole. Yakov gave me and Beka some safe, boring shit. But if we’re going to win at Ohio, I need your help.”

“You partnered with Otabek? As a follower?” What an amusing turn of events.

Yura gave a hint of a smile before schooling his face back into a scowl. “Yeah. So hurry up and shower or something and get your ass back to the studio. We don’t have much time.”

A reason to go into the studio! Viktor agreed with less reluctance than he expected. He’d work with the newly formed couple tomorrow.

“Send me a practice video in the meantime. Which dance offends you the most right now?”

“Tango.”

That night, freshly showered and shaved, Viktor stepped foot into his spare bedroom turned dance studio for the first time in over a week and began choreographing. Watching the video Yura sent, he agreed the tango Yakov gave them was too safe. And while it’s essential to build fundamentals, he would have been frustrated in Yura’s shoes, too. There’ll be time to refine basics into the realm of art. Years of it. For now, the boy deserved a different kind of challenge. 

Viktor couldn’t even make it past three figures before his mind whisked him away, back to last year’s Ohio and the tango he shared with a tipsy Yuuri. And the knee-weakening kiss. And how much he wanted it again. How much he wanted Yuuri back in his life, in whatever way he could have. Even if he never received another saucy text or a selfie with a come-hither smirk. Even if their conversations would be forever limited to poodles and foxtrots. Even if only as friends. Viktor wanted. Yearned. Craved.

He knew this was his own fault, that Yuuri was there for him after Blackpool, forgiving and supportive, while he himself became selfish and withdrawn, pushing everyone away, trying to find strength on his own. As time went by, he didn’t know how to apologize. And then Mila ended their partnership and he just couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t, resigned to loneliness.

But what if there was still a chance? For something? _Anything_ with Yuuri?

Before he could formulate even the barest semblance of a plan, Viktor was on the next flight to California, his promise to Yura neglected once again. Hopefully it wasn’t too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backleading: When a follower "leads." This is usually very problematic, especially when inexperienced followers do it inadvertently. In Sara and Mickey's case, she was saving them. 
> 
> Alignment: The dancer's position and direction of movement relative to the floor and walls at a given point in time.
> 
> Citizenship requirements are loose for country representation at international competitions. 
> 
> If you’re keeping track, it’s currently September in the story, with ages as follows:  
> Yuuri - 22  
> Viktor - 26  
> Yuri - 14  
> Otabek - 17
> 
> Remember that ballroom dancers peak much later than figure skaters, often in their 30’s.
> 
> It's only fair to point out that there's a lot of unrealistic stuff happening here. USDC (United States Dance Championships) is a big competition and US Nationals is only one of their many events. Both couples would actually enter the open-to-the-world pro Standard event as well. Additionally, the comp is held at a Disney resort near Orlando, Florida so there is plenty to do before and after. However, my brain hurt too much figuring out how tie in all those elements into the story. So I didn't.
> 
> ***
> 
> The rink opened last week. Feels so good to skate again even if ice time is super limited. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri faces his past.


	14. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri faces his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Développé: Borrowed from ballet, in a picture-line figure, the follower performs a leg extension while the leader provides counterbalance. 
> 
> American style: So far, I’ve only focused on the International styles, Latin and Standard. There is an American style counterpart to Standard called Smooth. The primary difference is that in Smooth, couples are allowed to separate, allowing underarm turns and side by side choreography. You can think of it more like a Broadway-show type style while Standard is a more “traditional” style.

Nope. Yuuri shook his head at the suitcase, still empty after a day and a half of sitting open on the floor. It wasn’t so much that this was a _bad_ idea. It just wasn’t a particularly desirable one.

The first year, Mari tried to guilt-trip him into coming home for Thanksgiving—his parents too kind and patient to push on their own—but he really couldn’t afford it at the time. Being a poor college student was a true enough excuse. What he didn’t tell her, though, was that he selfishly wanted that time and space for himself, to pause, to breathe. The adjustment of moving was hard. New town, new classes, new job. Having to talk about it, to pretend everything was okay would inevitably crush him. And he really didn’t want his family to worry.

The job is what got him through. He had never taught before, not formally anyway, before Celestino took him on, giving him free certification training along with flexible hours. And free rein over the studio whenever he wanted. Like over a long holiday weekend. Or the small hours of the night that should have been spent studying for academic exams rather than dance ones. Teaching mended Yuuri’s broken heart and allowed him to love ballroom once again, even if it now came with a healthy dose of caution and a firm decision to stay away from competition. 

After that Thanksgiving, the possibility of visiting home conveniently dropped from his mind and his family never pushed. Perhaps there was never a good enough reason, or perhaps he just never acknowledged that there didn’t need to be a reason in the first place. After all, Yuuri had two primary coping mechanisms in life—avoidance and dance—and his new life allowed him both.

The empty carry-on, now having graduated to the bed, laid open, waiting patiently for Yuuri to decide how to fill it. As a suitcase, waiting was all it could do. It didn’t have any of the answers Yuuri wanted, such as, _Was he really ready to do this? What would everyone say? What would he find once he was there?_ Not even the answer to, _What to pack?_ No, because this suitcase was used to carrying items like dance sneakers, practice shoes, competition shoes, dance pants, practice shirts, a tail suit, a suit suit, makeup, hair gel, and whatever Sara couldn’t fit in her own luggage. But this was a different kind of trip.

After staring absently at his closet for far too long, Yuuri finally managed to throw in some jeans and t-shirts. He truthfully didn’t need to pack much, not even a coat. It was only going to be three days, the weather mild and beautiful, typical of late summer.

“You really should, you know,” Phichit gestured to the cloth drawstring bag in Yuuri’s hands after it failed to make it into the suitcase.

“I’m not going there to dance.”

“You never know.”

Yuuri huffed, but put the shoes in. Along with a shoe brush and a set of practice clothes. And then he pulled them all out, deciding to take his whole dance bag as his personal item instead. That way it would be easier to keep everything in its place, the contents of all the compartments intact. Plus, Sara would be driving him to the airport after practice tomorrow anyway and this way he wouldn’t need to repack at the studio. Both plausible reasons.

After an hour of failing to fall asleep, he stared at the ceiling that night thinking about the next few days. Not dreading them exactly, just riding the normal wave of anxiety. His family was so excited that he’d be coming to visit. At first they assumed he’d just be in town for a competition—that’s how surprised they were that he was coming to visit to actually visit. It’s not like Michigan didn’t host any competitions. There were plenty. And Yuuri had danced at all of them year after year after year growing up. With Yuuko. But as a professional competitor, they were easy enough to avoid, simply not important enough to warrant the travel.

The guilt he now felt from not visiting sooner assured him he was doing the right thing by finally going. He’d have to remember to thank Sara later.

As the next hour ticked by, his thoughts continued to drift to her until they landed on a particularly fond memory from nearly a year ago. She was in this very bed, his arm around her while she traced swirls and figure eights across his chest and stomach, both of them relaxed but not quite yet sleepy after their act of intimacy, content to talk about their hopes and dreams as a new couple along with the changes and sacrifices they’d be willing to make to support their goals. Her dream was to train in Europe. _Can you imagine the easy access to all those renowned coaches? And being surrounded by so many top dancers?_ It did sound nice. And she still had family back in Italy…

When Yuuri realized that he didn’t have to wait to thank Sara later, that he could thank her now, his whole body collapsed into deep sleep from the relief. Walking into the studio the next day, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so grounded. And yet so free and light. It didn’t make any sense, but he felt it, reveled it in, and wasn’t going to question it. That’s how powerful this feeling was— _he wasn’t even going to question it_. Yuuri, who questions everything, readily accepted the quietude of his own mind.

Practice was exceedingly satisfying, their focus strong, the connection between them stronger. It made it easy for Yuuri to pull Sara into a hug at the edge of the floor before they went to change.

“I want you to do something for me, too.”

* * *

Yuuri spent the first half of the flight waiting for regret to hit. If not regret, then surely anxiety. But as mountains turned to plains on the ground below, neither had yet to show up. He knew that Italian leader would have to be a complete idiot to let Sara go. Hell, Yuuri was a complete idiot for letting her go. But it felt right. Her dream meant more to him than his own fear of losing a partner.

He spent the remainder of the flight wishing for a second chance at Nationals. Surprisingly, he’d quickly accepted the disaster of the competition itself. Whether that was due to avoidance or personal growth was irrelevant, because he didn’t care about that part. It’s later, after the awards, after his nap that he wished he could redo.

When Viktor, beautiful and fragile, curled into him and mumbled, _Be my partner,_ Yuuri would say, _Yes._ He’d be terrified. He’d think about where they’d live and train. He’d even allow himself to hope that Viktor would want them to be more than dance partners. Next, he’d imagine how they’d fight on the floor, because of course they would. And how they’d make love off the floor—he definitely had very specific ideas about that. Finally, he’d wonder if they’d find success in competition as a same-sex couple. He’d be more than terrified. But he would still say, _Yes._

The moment he turned off airplane mode, Yuuri darted to his text messages, hoping that by some miracle, the five hours he spent in flight would finally produce the message he’d desperately wanted. But no, the last one from Viktor was still four months ago. Yuuri had enough experience with drinking to know that either Viktor didn’t remember that night or, worse, he didn’t mean what he said. Sighing, he sent a message to Mari instead, letting her know he’d landed.

The drive to his childhood home was surreal. The streets, the buildings, even the trees of midwestern suburbia were mostly as he remembered—all recognizable, even if changed—except now he saw them through fresh, detached eyes. He had been so certain home would always be home, but the house in front of him just wasn’t anymore, and his lungs expelled a deep breath of relief from the comfort of knowing that he was only here for a visit.

Of course he loved his family. He’d missed everything from their warm, unwavering support to the delirium-inducing aroma of his mother’s katsudon. Phone calls really weren’t the same, he realized, basking in the love around him at the dinner table. Until his childhood dance teacher, Minako, descended upon him the moment she walked through the door, her smile far too bright, and Yuuri felt a fear like no other, instantly straightening up in his chair. She wanted something.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out what. “Yuuri! Welcome home! I hope you don’t have any plans tomorrow because you’re coming to the studio with me.”

“What? Why? I don’t have any ballet shoes with me. I almost didn’t even pack ballroom shoes.” He knew those words were a mistake by the momentary flare of anger in her eyes. She waved him off.

“I need you to teach a private lesson. My usual girl is on vacation this week. This guy just called about it this morning. He sounds desperate to impress his girlfriend.” Minako’s studio primarily offered ballet, which she taught herself, but she also hired a few instructors in various other styles, including ballroom.

“So you agreed without checking with me first?”

“Please. You know I can handle a beginner by myself. But since you’re here and available… Plus he said he’d feel more comfortable with a male instructor. And then you can stick around for some ballet torture. I hope you at least brought socks.”

Yes, Yuuri brought socks. He immediately wanted to work on his développé. If this trip was about making peace and finding himself, a little indulgence in a fantasy wouldn’t hurt, would it?

The following day he arrived to Minako’s studio early. Each step leading up to the second floor took his breath away. Hand on the rail, his heart beat faster and faster in anticipation, in understanding. The feeling finally hit him in full force, a heavy thud to the heart, when he reached the top of the stairs and opened the door. It was the same feeling he experienced every day back in California. _Home_. Minako’s studio, like Celestino’s, felt like _home_ , in a way that the walls of his childhood bedroom, still covered in posters of his then idol, the Australian champion Victoria, never had. The smile couldn’t be helped.

His student was interesting, to say the least. He was a Canadian figure skater here for training or visiting a coach or something. It was hard to follow because he talked big, but Yuuri recognized the familiar insecurity and desperation. Apparently he’d been taking occasional ballroom lessons in secret for a while now, hoping to impress his girlfriend and preferred a male instructor so it wouldn’t feel like he was cheating on her. A completely misplaced concern, but Yuuri acknowledged the sweet sentiment behind it.

They were fumbling through a rotating box in waltz when Yuuri suddenly found himself led into an underarm turn, if you count a yank from the shoulder socket as a lead. His student was quite proud of himself, believing it to be a great innovation. “It’s JJ style!”

Yuuri tilted his head in confusion. “I think you mean American style.”

The wide-eyed look he received in reply was priceless.

The lesson proved enjoyable despite the temporary pain. It had been a long time since Yuuri taught a beginner, a reminder of how far he’d come. Minako’s magic immediately after was a reminder of how far he’d fallen, at least with ballet. He’d need to resume his flexibility training if he wanted to—what _did_ he want, exactly?

There was an entire hour before Minako needed the space again, plenty of time to answer that question with the typical method. The plan was waltz—fundamental, easy to drill, easy to escape. But as he scrolled through his playlists, alphabetical by dance, Yuuri’s thumb hovered over Rumba instead. One of his old favorites, one he hadn’t heard in years, quietly filled the space. 

The percussive accent was strong and sensual, the tempo far too slow for competition, but oh so perfect for baring his soul through each painfully controlled movement, demanding in the need for precision to do the music justice. He danced nothing but basics, cucarachas, walks, and spirals during that hour, the song on repeat, barely glancing at the mirror to check his form. He didn’t need to. He knew he wasn’t where he used to be. Hell, he could barely complete a double spiral without tumbling out of it at the end. Yet— _yet!_ —each ripple of muscle through his back, each settling and rotation of the hip, each pressure of his toe into the floor _felt_ peaceful and satisfying, hopeful even, like welcoming an old friend back into his life.

He still loved Latin.

He still loved Yuuko.

* * *

The rink wasn’t at all like how he remembered. It looked very much the same, but it no longer threatened Yuuri with taking away his partner. Yuuko chose Takeshi over Yuuri, and along with that, she chose recreational skating over competitive ballroom, even going so far as to name her girls after skating jumps. And though Sara was still technically Yuuri’s partner, for all intents and purposes, they had split. There was nothing to fear from the ice.

Except the bruises he’d have on his knees from catching a toe-pick. Yuuko helped him up off the ice to make sure he was okay. Her smile was just as gentle as ever, eyes glimmering with warmth. Motherhood suited her far better than the harsh demands of the ballroom lifestyle, Yuuri realized. If she had let him love her, if he had been the father of her children, he would have given up dance in a heartbeat. But he wouldn’t have been truly content with his life.

He still loved Yuuko. And he was happy for her. And for himself.

The lobby walls were filled with photos of ice shows and competitions the rink hosted. Takeshi was clearly proud of his facility and described each one in enthusiastic, but unnecessary detail. Yuuri studied them, his mind quietly unearthing the knowledge that Viktor was a skater before he was a dancer. Perhaps he even skated here? Would Yuuri recognize a tiny Viktor in one of these photos?

Viktor made his first final at Nationals the year Yuuri and Yuuko split, the simple association with the ice enough to harbor deep resentment. It was foolish, of course. But Yuuri was hurt and angry and so alone. The ice took his partner all while producing a gorgeous new rival. But how could Viktor have been a rival when Yuuri wasn’t even competing in the same style? Or at that point, competing at all? So, no, not a rival. Just the recipient of Yuuri’s frustration and harsh judgement.

Maybe he was thinking about this the wrong way all along. The ice didn’t take anything from Yuuri it all. It simply showed him a different path. And perhaps even offered something, _someone_ , to him in return for his troubles.

_Oh._

Yuuri didn’t yet know what to do with this insight, but the answers wouldn’t come to him here, not from Yuuko and Takeshi, nor from Minako. Certainly not from his family. But what they couldn’t provide in advice, they made up for in an avalanche of support. In their own way, each one believed in him. How could he have forgotten the love all around him? He may no longer think of his childhood home as a home, but it gave Yuuri more than he ever deserved.

His therapist would be proud. There was a lot of emotional work in these three days. With a new sense of clarity and resolve, Yuuri cozied up to the window next to his seat and prepared to sleep the entire flight back. The last thing he saw as his switched his phone to airplane mode was the message he’d given up hope of ever receiving.

_> > hi_

Sleep was no longer an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spiral: A type of turn in rumba and cha cha where the dancer twists the body over a straight standing leg and the free leg wraps around, producing a corkscrew-like effect. Can be done on its own or as part of an underarm turn. A double, unassisted by a partner, is incredibly difficult.
> 
> I couldn't help myself with the jab at JJ. It was entirely self-indulgent. There are a lot of politics around American vs International style, with American often seen as “second class.” It's really complicated with a whole history behind it. However, Smooth has been gaining popularity worldwide in the last few years.
> 
> Occasionally, top female dancers go only by their first name, like a personal branding thing. Hence, Victoria with no last name from Australia. 
> 
> Shoe brush: A small brush with metal bristles for keeping the suede soles of ballroom shoes nappy, especially useful on a slick floor. Also used for cleaning off debris and prying off stray rhinestones, which yes, does actually happen. A lot.
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor arrives in California. Everyone makes assumptions.


	15. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor arrives in California. Everyone makes assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're ready for some fluff after the last few chapters. 💖

“Your plan is to show up unannounced to your friend’s place of work, while he’s working, to apologize for not having talked to him in months? And you think he’ll be so happy to see you that he’ll drop what he’s doing to talk to you?”

“Yes, exactly!” Viktor beamed at his seat mate, completely undeterred by the way her version of his idea made him seem just a tiny bit ridiculous. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart. This was likely his last chance with Yuuri. Without a partner, without actively competing, there was little hope of their paths crossing again. Why didn't he make more of an effort at Nationals? “Now should I bring flowers? He said he liked the flowers last time.”

“You brought your friend flowers before?”

“Well, of course! He kissed me! And it had been so long since I had been on a date. I wanted to impress him.” He didn't mention that the kiss was easily forgotten and the "date" was entirely one-sided, leaving him in lonely torment for months.

“Oh! So you’re trying to win back your ex-boyfriend!”

“What?! No! We were never like that…” Viktor trailed off, enthusiasm petered out, heart twisted in agony. Yuuri chose _friends_. And Viktor threw it away for reasons he couldn't understand let alone articulate. So much for finding new strength on his own. As a dancer in a _partnered_ sport he should have known better.

“But you want to be?”

How could Viktor not? Boyfriends, dance partners, poodle parents. All of it and more. “Only if he does.”

The woman next to him patted his hand and smiled. “Then definitely bring him flowers.”

Viktor smiled in return, instantly feeling lighter than before. He was right to think flowers would be important. Enthusiasm returned in nearly full force, he didn’t even need the remaining four hours of flight time to figure out what kind. 

Except the local florist didn’t have blue roses. Apparently they required advance notice to prepare _blue_ roses. Because, for who knows what reason, telling someone they were extraordinary needed to be planned. Clearly they didn’t understand how special Yuuri was. Viktor pouted.

He settled on yellow roses instead. _Friendship, joy, remember me_.

It was still mid-morning when he arrived at the studio. A 6am flight and three timezone changes will do that. Good. It should be relatively quiet, he hoped. He wasn't exactly trying to make a scene. Flower arrangement awkwardly in hand, suitcase trailing behind, Viktor pushed on the glass doors with his shoulder and stumbled in, barely managing to remain upright. Luckily Yuuri wasn’t in his line of sight, likely practicing or teaching on the far end of the ballroom, which meant Viktor would have a chance to put himself together. Maybe he should have checked into the hotel first and freshened up? _Right._ He hadn’t booked a hotel yet. A trivial detail for later.

Wearing his favorite pair of dark jeans—favorite because he knew his ass looked fantastic in them—and a simple long-sleeve tee that exposed his collarbone just so, Viktor made his way to approach the front desk when the ceramic vase holding two dozen pristine yellow roses was abruptly snatched from him. Before he could object, a familiar voice spoke from behind the arrangement, “Here, let me help you with these.”

He watched in near horror as Sara placed _Yuuri’s_ roses on the coffee table of the reception area, as if they were meant for anyone and everyone’s enjoyment. She shifted them around this way and that until they had met some unknown criteria before finally, _finally_ , turning to face him. He wanted to protest that those were for Yuuri, but the words died in his mouth the moment their eyes met. Hers were fierce. And the usually sweet, gentle smile was a devious smirk.

“Yuuri’s not here.”

Okay, no problem. He could wait. He'd just wait. Yes. Right here, in this very comfortable-looking chair where he could keep guard over the roses until Yuuri arrived.

Viktor's stubborn expression must not have gotten the message across because the next thing he knew, he was being dragged by the elbow to the teacher’s lounge, offering a polite smile and wave to the questioning looks from the ballroom. When they got there, Phichit was ready and waiting, ceremoniously holding the door open, then promptly shutting it once all three were inside. Why did it suddenly feel like an interrogation?

“So, Mr. Nikiforov. What are your intentions for our dear Yuuri?” Phichit wasn’t messing around. This _was_ an interrogation. Viktor had even somehow found himself sitting in a chair across from Phichit and Sara, who sat together on a couch with equally protective expressions.

Intentions? Did hope count as an intention? “Nothing. I just miss him, us. Talking. I wanted to apologize.”

Sara spoke next, “Apologize for what, exactly?”

 _For letting him slip away._ “For ignoring his texts after Blackpool, for being a horrible friend.”

“I see. So he didn’t know you were coming?” She pressed, even though they all knew the answer.

“Honestly, I didn’t even know I was coming until last night. I just suddenly realized that I pushed him away and I wanted to know if there was a still a chance for us… to be friends.” _Or more._

Phichit and Sara exchanged a look that may as well have been an entire conversation in a language Viktor didn’t understand. And then a grin—a wild, nightmare-inducing grin—came within an inch of Viktor’s face. “If you hurt him, I will singlehandedly turn the entire dance community against you.”

Viktor’s eyes grew wide. Sara giggled. Phichit continued to stare him down. What the hell was happening? And where was Yuuri?

“Bork! Bork!”

The threat disappeared instantly thanks to an adorable cute-sized poodle demanding attention from the dog bed in the corner where he had been quietly snoozing. _Vicchan!_ How could Viktor have missed this gorgeous boy currently being scooped up into Phichit’s lap? The stare-down broken, it took a few moments for Viktor’s brain to catch up to him, cooing at the pup in the meantime.

“Why would I hurt him?” He finally blurted.

Phichit and Sara exchanged another look, this one laced with exasperation, then abruptly stood up and gestured for Viktor to follow them back out to the ballroom.

“Feel free to stay and practice as long as you want. There are two group classes in this space in the afternoon but otherwise it’s open. I can check availability on the private studios, too, if you prefer,” Sara generously explained.

“Thank you?” The offer to use the space was appreciated, but didn’t answer anything. And he really wanted to dispel the growing feeling of dread that he wasn’t entirely welcome here. “But when is Yuuri coming back?”

Amused triumph flitted across the faint upturn of her mouth. “Monday.”

 _Monday?_ Yuuri wouldn’t be back until Monday? But Monday was neither _soon_ nor _in an hour_ nor even _this evening_. Today was Saturday, which meant that _Monday_ was in two days. Fuck.

* * *

The _Fasten Seatbelt_ sign could not turn off fast enough, Yuuri’s knee bouncing in anxious debate. Had the flight not been delayed, he wouldn’t have even seen the message, enjoyed a quiet nap, and gotten in some quality time on his Switch. Instead, he agonized until sleepless exhaustion left him unable to do little more than mindlessly stuff his face with the snacks his mother packed him.

Would there be more than _hi_? His heart clutched to the impossible hope that Viktor had remembered, that he fell asleep before hearing Yuuri’s rejection, and that he was asking once more to be partners. Because otherwise, it meant that Yuuri would have to ask himself. And he would. Probably. No, definitely. 

There was nothing more than _hi_. No _how are you?_ No picture of Makkachin. Just _hi_. Nothing less, nothing more. Was Viktor waiting for a reply first? Or was this message a soul-crushing mistake, a _hi_ meant for someone else? Or were they simply back to the awkwardness of their early exchanges? With passengers starting to file out, his window to make a decision closing, Yuuri sent back a shaky _hi_ of his own.

By the time he made it to the pick-up area, his _hi_ still hadn’t been read. But he could no longer ignore the influx of cryptic messages from Phichit, since his friend would be the one driving him back. Something about apologies for a surprise guest sleeping in his bed and a happy Vicchan and far too many exclamation marks with a promise that everything was great. He rolled his eyes. All he wanted was a confirmation that he should wait in the usual spot.

And then his _hi_ changed to _Read_.

And then the car pulled up. With a certain platinum-haired dancer in the passenger seat, looking sheepish and chastised, no doubt Phichit’s doing. Yuuri couldn’t believe it. Viktor was here! Viktor, who decided he still wanted Yuuri’s answer, was here, stepping out of the car to take Yuuri’s bag. Viktor, whose tentative, breathy “Hi” was better than any text message, _was here_.

The drive back to the apartment was quiet, Yuuri now sitting in the passenger seat and Viktor in the back, Phichit refusing to be treated like an Uber driver. Normally, Yuuri would immediately go down for a nap. But now his body tingled in nervous energy, amplified when he pieced together that Viktor was the surprise guest that had slept in his bed. And that image alone was enough of a distraction to keep him awake, his eyes firmly planted on the road in front of them.

He’d only later learn that it was Phichit’s way of keeping tabs on the Russian, who otherwise would have been unsupervised for an entire two days. And that it was Phichit who confiscated Viktor’s phone that morning after he broke his promise of not contacting Yuuri while he was in Michigan. In his own defense, Viktor insisted that they had only agreed until _Monday_ , not a specific time on Monday.

After dropping off his bags, Yuuri quickly showered and changed and the two of them went to a late lunch while Phichit left for the studio. Finally, they were alone, sitting at an outdoor cafe, enjoying the sun along with their meals, Yuuri bursting at the seams for the chance to say— 

“Yes.” There. He’d said it, blurted rather. It took courage and determination. But he wanted this more than anything. And now with relief flowing through him, he sat back and relaxed, a smile bursting across his face.

“Yes?” Viktor cocked his head in confusion, a perfect imitation of Vicchan. Or perhaps Makkachin?

 _Oh, god._ Context. Caught in the swirl of thoughts that was Yuuri’s mind, he forgot context! Quick, time to back track.

“To a partnership?” It came out like a meek question. Why did it come out like a question? “It’s why you’re here?” Another question. Yuuri really needed to stop talking. “It is, isn’t it? For a tryout?” He bit his tongue to shut himself up.

Judging by the widening of Viktor’s eyes and the drop of his jaw along with his fork, Viktor was not here for a tryout. _Crap, crap, crap._ What was Yuuri thinking? Of course Viktor was here for something else. Of course he had something more important, though Yuuri couldn’t possibly think of what.

The simplest of answers escaped Viktor’s lips in a quiet rush, complete with a delicate tint of pink across his nose. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Yuuri needed to be sure.

Viktor nodded in confirmation, his eyes searching Yuuri’s, and it suddenly felt like they had just agreed to much more than a tryout.

* * *

  
Yuuri turned out to be even more flexible than Viktor imagined. And his imagination was quite active. But seeing the ease with which his partner—too soon? not soon enough?—did his warm up stretches made all kinds of torturous things happen to Viktor’s heart. Not to mention his crotch, especially knowing these were only warm up stretches, the muscles still cool. He couldn’t wait to see what Yuuri would be capable of later.

They started with a round of only syllabus figures, pure lead-follow, of course. Two minutes per dance, five dances. Best ten minutes of Viktor’s entire dance career. Maybe of his life. And despite the tiny itch of logic gnawing at the back of his skull that this was too good to be true, there was absolutely no way he was going to question how this tryout came to be. Yuuri in his arms was everything Viktor had wanted. He'd figure out which deity to thank later.

After a quick break of flushed cheeks and sheepish smiles, they moved on to a round of open. It wasn’t perfect. But, oh, the recovery, the way they adjusted, the way they responded to each other in the moment to keep moving fluidly across the floor despite their mistakes. Their recovery was something couples spend years and years developing. Viktor prided himself on his ability to compensate for his follower, but he’d never had a follower compensate for _him_ as well as Yuuri just demonstrated, certainly a result of his experience as a leader, not to mention a highly skilled social dancer. And the stamina! Viktor knew his hair was unattractively plastered to his forehead—it was a vigorous quickstep!—while Yuuri had barely broken a sweat. And now, as they sipped their waters from the side of the floor, Viktor admired his practically confirmed new partner from the corner of his eye in stunned silence.

But then the most beautiful, hopeful expression crossed Yuuri’s face, eyes lit with wonder, begging for confirmation, and Viktor just had to ask, “Yuuri, how did you know?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you know that I was looking for a new partner? Mila and I haven’t told anyone we’d split.”

Yuuri choked on his water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recovery (not an actual term, but that's what I call it here for simplicity): Perfect lead/follow along with perfect execution in Standard is impossible and impractical to strive for (because of reasons), but what can make or break a couple is their ability to recover from an error. They can either react quickly and make a clean adjustment in the moment or they can try to muscle through, letting the error have a domino effect for the next several figures. The same idea applies in social dancing. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor makes good on his promise.


	16. Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor makes good on his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumba characterization: While cha cha is all about flirting and the thrill of the chase, rumba is about seduction and love-making between established romantic partners. It’s passionate and heated, with rather suggestive choreography at the higher levels.

“Are you okay?”

Recovered from his coughing fit, Yuuri gaped at Viktor in disbelief. Several moments passed between them before he finally spoke, evenly, just above a whisper, “You told me. I found you at the hotel bar after Nationals. You had a few too many drinks, so I took you back to your room… and you told me.”

It was Viktor’s turn to cough. Yuuri had known. He asked for a tryout because he’d known, which meant he’d already forgiven Viktor. 

“There’s something else. You… you asked me to be your partner. And when I didn’t hear from you after, I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“So that explains why you thought I was here for a tryout,” Viktor tapped his finger against his mouth in satisfaction, mystery solved. His mind, however, reeled from this divulgence, mortified and appalled at his own carelessness and the hurt he surely caused.

“Why _are_ you here?”

Viktor didn’t hesitate to answer, “For you. However you’ll have me.”

Those words lit a fire in Yuuri like no other. He instantly recalled the variety of ways he’d thought long and hard about having Viktor. But this offer was about so much more, so he filed away those very pleasant and distracting thoughts for the, hopefully, near future. And in lieu of an answer, he extended his left hand, arm parallel to the floor, palm up—an invitation for a one-handed connection.

They danced rumba, slow and simple, the rhythm only in their bodies. It was easily the most sensual rumba Yuuri has ever had the pleasure of dancing. He refused to lead Viktor into any figures that would require them to break connection, however momentarily, preferring to constantly flex and release the tension of his arm to feel his partner’s immediate response as they both shifted their weight from foot to foot, ribcages following, abs tightening, backs twisting and shaping, knees bending and straightening, hips rotating and settling.

When it still wasn’t nearly enough, Yuuri brought Viktor into a closed hold. While superficially similar to a Standard frame, this Latin hold was more relaxed, and more importantly, it allowed both partners to fully face each other, the follower having no need to stretch away. And when an actual rumba played over the studio speakers, Yuuri surprised them both with his command, “Don’t take your eyes off me.”

Viktor could have been a stunning follower, Yuuri thought, as they continued to dance closed-hold basics through the very last notes of the song, eyes locked, faces flush. But he wasn’t; he was the country’s best leader, able to choose any follower he wanted. And he wanted Yuuri. And Yuuri desperately wanted him, too. Guiding Viktor off the floor when the next song, a cha cha, began, he hoped their dance was enough of a reply.

Absolutely, stupidly breathless, Viktor wondered whether Yuuri had really just conveyed what he himself had long stopped daring to desire. Or was Viktor simply projecting himself onto the song’s lyrics? _Casi Un Bolero_ was one of his favorite rumbas in those early years of ten-dance and to this day left him emotionally raw.

_This damn loneliness_  
_Comes with me and goes with me_  
_…_  
_And I wish you were by my side this time_  
_…_  
_I don't know why I let you walk away_  
_I never told you that I love you_

He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. When Yuuri turned to face Viktor once again, jaw set in determination, noses inches apart, breaths mingling, he declared, “What you said before, about how I’ll have you… Like that.”

And, oh, _oh_ , Viktor definitely swooned. Thank goodness there was already a chair just a step behind him because otherwise Yuuri would have had to carry him out.

They gazed at each other, a mix of emotions—exhilaration, relief, lust—playing across their faces, neither sure what to say or do next.

Until finally, “Will you come to New York?”

* * *

There was nothing uncomfortable about the idea of sharing a bed that night. They’d already made an unspoken commitment to each other as partners, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Yuuri would share a bed with one. Hell, he’d even shared a bed with Phichit at a competition after a mixup with their reservations. Besides, he was beyond exhausted and sleep, on whatever remotely soft surface he could manage, was welcome and necessary.

Because Viktor Nikiforov was going to be the death of him. As if it wasn’t enough that he had the flights booked before Yuuri even finished changing, it was obvious that his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders was about to become a permanent fixture. Yuuri had kept things with Sara professional outside the bedroom and had no idea how to handle this new, open level of affection. They hadn’t even made anything official yet! They shouldn’t have even made this decision without a coach. Unless the thumbs up from Celestino counted. Which it probably didn’t.

And they certainly shouldn’t have started planning a showdance to music that didn’t even yet exist. But Viktor insisted on listening to Ketty’s compositions for school when they caught her and Phichit in the reception area on their way out, the roses still there, resplendent. One song in particular had him promptly back on the floor—in street shoes no less, like a heathen—dancing quick, successive natural and reverse turns. Yuuri laughed and pointed out that it wasn’t even a Viennese. Viktor grinned when he replied, _No, but it could be_. Which is why they spent an additional hour at the studio, with Ketty and Viktor conspiring how to rearrange her song, a collaboration with a vocalist, to 3/4 time at the appropriate tempo. 

When they finally returned to the apartment and ate dinner, it was nearly bedtime in Michigan. At least he’d be traveling back to that same timezone tomorrow, which was the only thought giving Yuuri comfort as he did a load of laundry and prepared to repack. Sara’s own tryout was tomorrow, or rather today in her local time. What if it didn’t go well? What if he left her without a partner?

But even those worries weren’t enough to keep him from succumbing to sleep, pressed against Viktor’s chest, a comforting arm wrapped around him. Too tired to appreciate the magnificence of his partner’s tiny black bikini briefs, Yuuri had simply blinked before scooting over to make room in the bed. Later he might regret that, but for now, he was warm and content.

A simple text from Sara greeted him in the morning. _Thank you_. It was the final confirmation he needed that everything worked out, that he could fully commit to Viktor without lingering doubts. Which apparently meant sacrificing himself as a human body pillow to the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. He didn’t mind.

* * *

“It’s about damn time you came back, old man! Those consolation videos you’ve been sending are complete shit.” A small, angry, and very pretty teenager hissed at Viktor the moment they’d walked into a truly impressive ballroom studio, pristine floors bathing in the amber evening light pouring through an entire wall of nearly floor to ceiling windows. “I still can’t believe I had to find out from your dog sitter that you’d left town,” the lithe blonde muttered under his breath before turning his green daggers on Yuuri.

“Yura! It’s good to see you, too!” Viktor exclaimed with false cheer and instinctively placed a protective hand on Yuuri’s back. Not that Yuuri needed protection, but Yuri Plisetsky could be a bit much, even on his best days. And today was most definitely not one of them. Might as well take advantage. “Yuuri, I’d like you to meet our resident kitten, Yuri. And that’s his partner, Otabek.” Viktor nodded in greeting to the quiet man standing a few feet away. “They dance both Latin and Standard. Under 21.”

Confused by the kitten reference and subsequent death glare, Yuuri chose to simply ignore it for now. “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Yuuri Katsuki—“

“Yeah, yeah, Ohio finalist.” Yuri waved dismissively. “The hell happened to you at Nationals?”

Viktor wrapped his arm around Yuuri’s waist in reassurance after feeling his partner stiffen at the remark. Had something happened at Nationals? Viktor knew he and Sara placed last in the final, but was too busy drowning in self-pity to watch any videos or ask any questions.

“Yura, why don’t we get back to practice?” Otabek interjected softly, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. The resident kitten threw one last scowl toward Viktor before accepting.

“Don’t mind him. He’s mad because I promised him some choreography a while back,” Viktor explained when Yuuri didn’t immediately relax. “Actually, he’s generally mad about something regardless.”

“What did you promise?” Both understood this was a deliberate change of topic.

“Open choreography when he found a new partner. They partnered up right before Nationals so I haven’t had a chance to do it yet. They want to compete at Ohio.”

“Viktor! That’s in two months. You should really make good on that promise. Go ahead, work with them now. I’ll be fine practicing by myself. It’s late anyway. We’ll pick things up tomorrow.”

“But Yakov gave them routines already—“

“Viktor.” Yuuri had that look of determination again.

“—and I’ve been sending videos while I was in California.”

“Viktor.” Yuuri crossed his arms over his chest, debate over.

Defeated, Viktor hung his head and walked off toward the younger pair, only turning around to throw a pitiful look back at Yuuri. He was graced with a soft, knee-weakening smile in return.

Having witnessed the impossible, Yuri scrambled to pick his jaw up off the floor and bring an unimpressed look back to his face. He’d never seen anyone have this level of influence over Viktor before. Whatever Yuuri Katsuki was doing here… oh, _hell no_.

“You and Mila aren’t just taking care of some personal shit, are you? You’ve split and now Katsuki is here for a tryout.”

“Don’t be silly, _kotenok,_ we’ve already had a tryout. He’s here to decide where we should train. So be nice because I want it to be here. Now let’s see your tango. Go.”

Headphones in, Yuuri worked on heel turns in foxtrot. Yes, he’d messed up at Nationals. And even though he’d already forgiven himself, he really didn’t want a reminder. Especially not one from a dancer who didn’t even look old enough to dance in Under 21. Is this what he’d have to look forward to from now on? While Viktor gave Yuuri the choice of where to train, claiming he was ready to move anywhere in the world, Yuuri had already decided before they even boarded their flight.

Yet being here, in Viktor’s studio, he couldn’t quite call it his own. His decision, his new partnership and all the changes that came with it were suddenly very real, literally right in front of him. And just as terrifying as he’d feared. But, no, not Viktor. Viktor was tender and kind and even more affectionate than Sara, however implausible that may be. Viktor’s presence on the other side of the room was the only thing keeping Yuuri grounded.

He moved on to shaping, needing another distraction and to get more comfortable with the follower’s poise. Some time later, his focus had returned. Blissfully lost in his training, lower back beginning to shoot pain up his spine, Yuuri failed to see the threat stomping toward him until it was too late. He took out his headphones and gulped. An Ohio finalist should have nothing to fear from anyone in any dance studio, but this kid was unnerving.

Until he wasn’t. Refusing to meet Yuuri’s eyes, Yuri simply asked, “So what’s it like being a male follower?”

Yuuri answered truthfully and kindly, “I don’t know. I’ve never been one before.” And then because he couldn’t stop his mouth, or maybe because there was now something vulnerable about Yuri’s expression, he added, “But maybe we could trade some tips and learn together?”

Yuri Plisetsky blushed. Honest to goodness blushed. Viktor and Otabek looked on fondly from the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor’s rumba: Casi Un Bolero (Ricky Martin) — https://youtu.be/9X2E97UcuNs  
> Lyrics: https://lyricstranslate.com/en/casi-un-bolero-almost-bolero.html
> 
> Heel turn: A turn made with the feet together and the weight on the heels. A very common turn for followers, especially in foxtrot. This is essentially the same feather into reverse combination that Phichit had Yuuri demonstrate for Ketty in chapter 5.
> 
> Under 21 division age restrictions: At least one partner must be 16 years old, and both must be under 21 years old.
> 
> Followers in Standard tend to develop back problems. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor and Yuuri order matching tail suits.


	17. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri order matching tail suits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaders in American Smooth wear dinner jackets instead of tail suits. Since the style relies on partners separating and performing side-by-side, tail suits are too restrictive and honestly out of character. Jackets are also common for Standard showdances where any choreography is allowed, including lifts.

Yuuri was dead on his feet by the time they were done at the studio and Viktor, in a grand romantic gesture, decided it would be a fantastic idea to carry his probably-but-not-yet-officially-confirmed-boyfriend the last half a block to his apartment. The result was the two of them in a heap on the ground as Viktor tried but failed to fish out his keys. Damn. Yuuri was _heavy_. It shouldn’t have come as the surprise that it did, but Yuuri’s strength was just too easy to overlook given his grace, softness, and smaller frame.

Except there was not the slightest hint of grace now. Only the heartwarming sight of Makkachin sharing a bed with an indiscernible lump, a mess of dark hair peeking out from the covers. Viktor was too delighted to even hold a grudge against his traitor of a poodle and tiptoed quietly out of the room to let the two rest as soon as he finished snapping a photo.

What _did_ happen at Nationals?

A quick search revealed that Phichit hadn’t posted Yuuri and Sara’s video—probably for good reason—forcing Viktor to rely on the official one. It started out well enough. The presentation quickstep was wonderful. However, the fact that the camera was barely on them during the waltz spoke volumes about what transpired in the short time between. He finally spotted them in the background, behind himself with Mila, and nearly whimpered in shock. They were off time. Yuuri, with his sublime, expressive musicality, was off time. When the video panned out to show the entire floor between dances, it revealed _Sara_ guiding them to their place for tango after an uncomfortable bow.

Resolve flashed across Viktor’s eyes. He’d seen all he needed and immediately rushed into his second bedroom studio, directly to the closet brimming with tail suits, vests, jackets, pants, and dress shirts—all reminders of his failed past partnerships. But none as much as a particular jacket he’d never worn. Princely, it was a deep magenta, almost wine colored, double breasted, complete with deep aubergine lapels, gold military-style accents, a delicate sprinkle of rhinestones, and a crisp white shirt that was meant to be worn unbuttoned. He had it made on a whim, years ago, as if simply owning this showdance costume would bring him a step closer to a partner, its intended match still a sketch on paper. Looking at it now, it became clear there was never any true hope in that garment. Only loneliness and desperation.

Not five minutes later, the closet was bare, two large open suitcases on the floor overflowing with thousands of dollars of impeccably-tailored fabric. If Yuuri was brave enough to move on, to put the past behind him, then Viktor could be, too. He’d held on to these costumes and everything they represented for far too long and every last one deserved to find new life. As did he.

* * *

Truthfully, Viktor’s home studio was barely large enough for a solid feather step. But it was perfect for drills, strength, and flexibility work. Latin, too. It even had a ballet barre, which Yuuri eyed with interest. One might wonder what the point was given Viktor’s proximity to the actual studio and his unrestricted access. But just having the ability to stay in the comfort of your own home—

Wait. Was Yuuri really thinking of Viktor’s apartment as his own home? _Already?_ He hadn’t even been here a full 24 hours. He wasn’t even comfortable yet in the actual studio, where he’d be spending most of his waking hours. And they hadn’t even… Well, they’ve shared a bed for two nights now, but Yuuri was still unsure of where they stood. Partners, yes. Lovers, maybe. Probably. Hopefully. They haven’t really had sufficient alone time to talk about any of it. But if they were only going to be partners, not more, then Yuuri needed to stop thinking of this as his home. He’d need to find his own apartment once he relocated.

Those were the thoughts meandering through Yuuri’s mind while he worked his toes, ankles, and knees through the usual drills, Viktor out for walk with Makkachin, who apparently was the sacrificial body pillow this morning. Yuuri was too groggy to actually remember. Despite sleeping in late and Viktor’s charming tussled bedhead, he wouldn’t have minded another hour or two. He was beginning to suspect that his partner was a morning person.

“We’re back! I know it’s still early, but I picked up lunch if you’re hungry.” Viktor popped his head in to the studio, his eyes drinking in Yuuri’s form, lingering on the powerful thighs that can match him stride for stride. Until they wandered to the suitcases, moved since last night. Though still open and overflowing, one was now tucked back into the closet while the other shifted to the far corner.

Following Viktor's line of sight, Yuuri began squeaking out an apology, “Ah, sorry! I moved those. I was trying to get more space.”

“It’s fine. I was planning on bringing them to studio today anyway, see if anyone wants them.”

“You’re getting rid of your old costumes? Why?”

“I wanted to make room in the closet for ours.”

Like someone flipped a switch with those words, Yuuri’s lips were on Viktor’s in an instant. Teeth and tongue and sweat, urgent and reckless. Intoxicating. And even though Yuuri couldn’t remember their first kiss, nearly a year ago now, he was certain this one was better. Viktor, who still remembered quite well, dared not even compare.

They scrambled to rid themselves of clothes, stumbling across the hall into the bedroom, moaning into each other's mouths all the while. Yet when they fell into bed and paused to truly study each other, each finding himself in the other's eyes, the mood shifted, the urgency instantly gone. Kisses slowed and deepened while touches turned reverent, and by the time they finally made it into the studio, hours later than planned, they were both abundantly clear about the status of their relationship.

Practice was light and unhurried, their immediate goals still undefined. It was also their first as partners and they needed to learn about how the other preferred to work. Yakov, however, who stood watching from the side observing, correctly surmised that their carefree attitude was because they were just too damn in love to take their dancing seriously. Idiots.

“Yuuri Katsuki. Welcome.”

“Mr. Feltsman, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Your studio is beautiful.”

Yakov shook the offered hand. Then, without missing a beat, moved on to business. “So when do we start?”

“Excuse me?” Yuuri looked to Viktor for clarification.

The coach provided it instead, firm in his response. “You want to be ready in time for Ohio, don’t you?”

 _In time for Ohio?_ Yuuri had long ago dismissed that as an option. They should have already had routines for each of the group dances plus a showdance by now. Not to mention costumes. Would their sponsor even accommodate them on such short notice? Then again, who would say _no_ to Viktor Nikiforov—

“Yes! We should start as soon as possible! Right, Yuuri?”

“I… uhh… ” Yuuri watched his boyfriend’s face crumble at the hesitation before casting his eyes down to the floor. “I don’t know.” It would seem that Yuuri Katsuki was who would say _no_ to Viktor Nikiforov.

Yakov sighed. “I expect you to figure it out by tomorrow.” He walked off with a shake of his head, muttering something about blood pressure under his breath.

“What is it?” Viktor softly coaxed, holding Yuuri’s hands in his own.

“I didn’t expect we’d have to be ready so soon.”

“We will be. We’re too good to debut at some regional competition. I know you know that. And if we skip Ohio, we’ll wait months for another opportunity.”

Yuuri meekly nodded. It made sense. It wasn’t what he expected, but it made sense.

“Trust me,” Viktor whispered, enveloping him in strong, reassuring arms.

Back at Viktor’s apartment thirty minutes later, alone on the floor, arms clutching his knees, Yuuri cursed himself for believing those two tiny words could be enough. He really _did_ trust Viktor. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that he didn’t trust himself. It was all happening so quickly. Too quickly. So when Viktor went to shower, Yuuri retreated back to the safest place he had. And danced. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t get lost in it. He couldn’t focus. He made mistakes. Lots of them. One after another after another after another, until he dropped to the floor in a sobbing mess. What the hell was he thinking, moving across the country again, starting over again, giving his heart to a partner, _again_?

He kept his eyes closed long after the burst of panic had passed, too spent to do much more than properly breathe. When he opened them, blurry and still wet, glasses long tossed aside, it was to a familiar nudge under his hand. A request for scratches. Vicchan? No, Makkachin. He smiled anyway and complied.

Viktor was there, too, sitting directly across from Yuuri, watching with quiet concern. How long had he been there? He didn’t look mad, at least.

“I get panic attacks,” Yuuri said simply. There was no reason to hide it. Viktor would either accept this or he wouldn’t. The last time he had a conversation like this, with Sara, he’d called himself weak. He knew better now and could practically hear Phichit yelling at him for even thinking the word.

Viktor scooted over to comfort his lover and wrapped an arm around his back, gently pulling him close. His lips met the top of Yuuri’s head, nose deep in the soft, raven hair. “I know.”

Yuuri sighed but didn’t pull away. “Peach?”

“Yes. He didn’t tell me much, if you’re wondering.” Enough for Viktor to now piece together a significant fragment of the last two weeks. He waited in the stillness for Yuuri to reply, Makkachin’s thumping tail echoing through the room. When it became clear he wouldn’t, Viktor pressed, “Are you okay?”

Yuuri shook his head. _No._ “Are you? With this? With me?”

Disheartened that he even had to answer, Viktor cupped Yuuri’s cheek, gently turning his head until their eyes met. “I couldn’t be happier with you, with us.” He then pressed a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s downturned mouth until he received one in return.

It started as words of reassurance, gentle caresses, tender kisses. A shy smile surfaced, followed by hints of laugher. Until a slow trickle of confessions finally broke the dam, giving way to a revealing account of the last year and half from both of their perspectives, hearts free and vulnerable.

“ _That’s_ why you hated me?” Viktor repeated incredulously, watching Yuuri turn bright red. “I haven’t been on the ice in years.”

“I know. It was stupid—”

“No, love. It wasn’t—”

“But we could have been together so much sooner—”

Viktor’s mouth shut him up. Yuuri wasn’t wrong per se, but they were together now. In another timeline, they may not have been together at all.

“Now about Vicchan—”

“No.”

“But it would be so cute!”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “I refuse to call you by my dog’s name. He was named after Victoria, not you. And it would be so confusing with the two of you in one place!”

Again, Yuuri wasn’t wrong. “Alright, then. What about Vitya?”

It was way past dinner time when their stomachs finally growled in protest, Viktor’s apartment filled with a different kind of stillness, one of a comfortable, lazy silence—a devoted couple at peace. They slowly untangled themselves to get dressed, allowing their eyes to roam over each other’s athletic bodies. Makkachin led them to the door, eager for a walk and the three strolled together, Viktor and Yuuri hand in hand.

“What will we do for costumes?” Yuuri asked, sparkling eyes fixed on the street ahead of him.

Viktor was pleased. Firstly, that he recognized this was his boyfriend’s way of assuring him that he was ready to train for Ohio. And secondly, that they would finally, _finally_ talk about matching tail suits.

“Black velvet. Satin lapels. Yours should have crystals on the back.” The simple statement was accompanied by the most precious heart-shaped smile Yuuri had ever seen. “I’ll show you sketches when we get back.”

Of course, Viktor had sketches. In fact, he had sketches since he first saw Yuuri’s profile on dancesportpartner.com. A few were completely ridiculous, and Yuuri waived those off as, hopefully, showdance concepts. One, however, stood out in the best possible way. It had a feminine quality to it without being too soft, clearly meant for a follower, not just for a glitzed up leader. Even the rhinestone design was purposeful, tracing the spine. Yuuri pictured himself in it and loved what he saw.

“Vitya, this one.”

Viktor was on the phone in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With multiple couples on the floor at a time, it’s impossible to watch only a specific couple in a video. However, dancers can order video service from the official competition videographers to follow them specifically on the floor to have for their own reference.
> 
> Pre-owned costumes are very common. Since Viktor just wants his old costumes gone, he’s not even going to bother putting them on consignment. And considering the high quality, the recipients of his old costumes are going to be very lucky indeed.
> 
> A well-executed feather step at full stride covers a lot of space.
> 
> 2 months of prep with a new partner is very short, but can be feasible with LOTS of practice and no expectations of winning. In this case, however, it's crazy short since Yuuri and Yura are both dancing opposite roles from their usual.
> 
> ***
> 
> We're not done yet! More plot still to go. 
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri officially moves in. Ohio arrives far too quickly.


	18. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri officially moves in. Ohio arrives far too quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When practicing without music, generally the leader will count for the couple.  
>   
> 

The contact details stared directly back at Yuuri, a shine reflecting off his phone’s screen. All he had to do was press the call button. Deep breath. This was it. One ring, two—

“Yuuri! Ciao-ciao! How’s New York?”

“Celestino, hi.” Another deep breath. “Umm… about that…” Yuuri struggled to finish the thought, too rattled with guilt.

To his relief, he didn’t have to. For some unfathomable reason, Celestino seemed genuinely happy and proud of his long-time student. If this conversation had been in person, he even would have slapped Yuuri on the back in congratulations enough times to bruise. But as grateful as Yuuri was that he didn’t have to defend his choice, it didn’t make any sense. Where was the anger, the let down? The concern over losing two top instructors in the span of a week?

“You don’t think I started putting feelers out the moment I found out Sara was heading to a tryout?” _No, definitely not._ “Don’t worry. I’ve got a few promising leads. These things always work out.”

Yuuri worried anyway, until a week later—a grueling yet wonderful-in-every-way week later—when he was able to thank Celestino in person for everything the coach had done, for taking a chance on a nobody amateur and giving him a fruitful career. Being back in that studio again for what could very well be the last time, tracing his own reflection in the mirrors, Yuuri’s heart began to ache in mourning for how much he’d miss this space, with its faded couches and friendly twinkle lights, along with everything it represented: his many students, his friends, his years of memories, filled with struggles and triumphs alike. This was his home, his sanctuary, his life. And he was here to say goodbye.

“Josef Karpisek is moving back to the area soon,” the long-time coach informed him. “He’d been looking for a studio to teach out of, so I offered him mine. I’m sure that’ll attract plenty of students along with fresh instructors.”

“I’m so glad,” Yuuri sighed in disbelief. Everything really _was_ working out.

The surprise farewell party Phichit arranged with the staff and students was entirely unnecessary. Which was to say, it was exactly what Yuuri needed to process his decision, freely crying tears of gratitude in front of his entire California dance family; he’d only later reflect that he was already forming a new one in New York. He was also blessed with the chance to dance with Sara again, back from Italy to sort out paperwork and make arrangements for her own move. And she was as exquisite as the first time he held her. They put on an impromptu show and promised to see each other in January, at the UK Open.

The three friends ended the night together at Phichit and Yuuri’s apartment, like old times, if mere weeks ago could be considered old. And Yuuri would miss this, too. It was hard to believe the living room where they now sat would be just Phichit’s living room after tomorrow, his own—nearly former—bedroom mostly packed up and soon to be empty. The dancers talked and laughed and hugged and cried into the early hours, until the need to sleep overtook them. They wished each other their last heartfelt goodnights before parting, kisses on the cheek for all. A chapter of Yuuri’s life closed with one final selfie.

* * *

By the time Yuuri returned with Vicchan—bringing with him a brilliance that Viktor had sorely missed in those brief nights apart—it was public knowledge that he and Sara had split. It was mere public _speculation_ , however, that Yuuri had moved to New York for a new partnership, and only in select circles at that, very few privy to the entire truth. Not even yet Chris.

“By the way, I’ll be at Celestino’s studio tomorrow. Shall I give Yuuri your regards?”

Viktor glanced over his shoulder to see Yuuri practicing head changes in and out of promenade. As the good friend he was, he bit his tongue and allowed Chris to continue the pretense.

“I don’t actually want your help.” For the first time in a long time, that was the truth.

“Suit yourself. And here I was hoping to brag about my new opportunity.”

“Oh? By all means.”

“I’m thinking of relocating. Better weather, you know,” Chris practically purred. Obviously, the weather had nothing to do with it.

“Why, really?”

“Josef’s going to start renting space up there.” Chris hasn’t coached regularly with Josef in years. Not since he stopped competing for himself and became a top Pro/Am instructor, cashing in on how popular he was with female students. That meant—

“You want to compete in Latin again?”

“Desperately. Pro/Am is so boring. I’m even open to Smooth, depending on what will work best with my partner. And since Yuuri is now available…” Chris was surely fluttering his eyelashes before suddenly flipping the mood to solemn. “Seriously, Viktor, if you’re not going to make a move, I just might.”

“If you can convince him, you have my blessing.” He hoped his dear friend could sense the intensity of his smirk. Chris would find out soon enough, along with everyone else.

Thanks to Phichit, Viktor had both a brilliant plan for how to make the announcement and a willing Yuuri to go along with it. Given how wildly popular their waltz video from seven months ago still was, they would slowly tease fans over social media, making the final reveal right before the official Ohio heat lists posted.

_v-nikiforov: [image: Mila, with Viktor and Yuuri on either side, all with bright smiles]_

Phichit, of course, was the first to like the post, soon followed by Ketty, who had truly outdone herself with the showdance song. Viktor spent two lonely nights while Yuuri was gone listening to it on repeat, getting lost in each line of lyrics, feeling each beat in his soul, to the point that even Makkachin had probably had enough. He wanted to choreograph together, he really had. But madness threatened to overtake him if he waited even a moment longer.

Thankfully Yuuri didn’t hate it. Far from it, judging by his warm smile. And after their third run-through, the first with music, his eyes sparkled, a sure sign his mind was searching for something. Viktor waited quietly, watching those gentle eyes in fascination, with hope that he’d be rewarded for his attempt at patience.

“Let’s try again, without music,” Yuuri’s request was laced with resolve. “I’ll count.”

And, oh, how Viktor was rewarded indeed. Yuuri made a single change to the choreography that shifted the entire message of the performance, making it perfect. Absolutely perfect, beyond words. Viktor tried without success to relax for the remainder of the dance, willing himself to listen to Yuuri’s quiet counts, but his heart beat so wildly in joy, it came dangerously close to bursting free from his chest. _Death by lover’s brilliant surprise._ There could be worse ways to go.

He couldn’t be bothered to hold the final pose. Yuuri _needed_ to be kissed. Now. They were definitely keeping this change and crashing their mouths together was the only way Viktor could think of communicating the message. It was a small miracle they didn’t end up on the floor from the impact. When they pulled away moments later, lips still tingling, Yuuri looked proud. It was a good look on him.

The following day, they started lessons with Yakov's former partner and ex-wife, Lilia Baranovskaya. The original intent was for Yuuri to focus on the follower’s role, Viktor relegated to but a provider of the frame for his partner’s benefit. Now, however, he became just as active of a participant, and perhaps a bit too spirited for the savage coach who was continually unimpressed despite the very obvious progress they both made with each passing week. It never was clear whether her and Yakov's personal relationship fell apart before or after their professional one, though one could take an educated guess.

_v-nikiforov: [image: selfie of Viktor winking, Yuuri in the background holding a leader’s frame]_

* * *

Yuuri could feel himself moving more and more like a follower each day. Yura, who actually began to smile during his rounds, was making similar progress. As a former amateur competitor himself, Yuuri appreciated the immensity of Yura and Otabek’s challenge, watching them both bring homework to the studio to study over hasty dinners, just so they could eke out more time on the floor. Thank goodness someone managed to convince them to only take on Standard at Ohio instead of forcing Latin as well. After all, there were only so many weeks. Still, the couple refused to forego practicing Latin altogether, and Yuuri happily joined them in technique drills.

His own challenge was different. Yuuri now found himself with more training time than he’d ever had before, Viktor funding everything they needed so neither had to teach. The problem was that Yuuri _liked_ teaching. In fact, throughout his partnership with Sara, he found that it was emotionally necessary. After hours of criticism in lessons followed by more hours of self-criticism in practice, the change of perspective was essential. Without it, all Yuuri knew how to do was push himself through the mounting frustration.

“Can you give me that lead again?” It was the thirteenth time he asked, and he was prepared to keep asking until he got his part right, mental fatigue and rapidly diminishing returns on his effort be damned.

“How many times has it been? Aren’t you tired yet?”

Yuuri chose to ignore the hint of irritation in his partner’s tone. “Please?”

“Well I’m tired.”

There was no ignoring it now. Not with the wave of hurt that shot through Yuuri’s system. Yes, he was tired. But couldn’t Viktor tell how hard he was trying, had been trying this entire time, to be good enough? So instead of recoiling, he spat back, “You don’t have to say it like that.”

One too irritated to apologize, the other too pained to talk, they spent the remainder of their practice in passive-aggressive silence until Yakov sent them home to walk their dogs or do whatever it is they usually do to clear their heads. And that felt like a slap in the face, too. Even their coach didn’t believe in them, in their ability to work through the conflict. Yuuri and Sara always fought verbally, and never so much fought as enthusiastically discussed, even when disagreeing. Cold silence with clinical movement was something new and unwelcome.

What if they _couldn’t_ work through it? It was the day before they planned to announce their partnership and they weren’t even speaking to each other, simply walking side by side on the way home, facing ahead or checking their phones or looking in any direction other than at each other. This was a new level of avoidance, even for Yuuri. 

By the time they made it back, accepting that he was too emotionally drained to deal with his boyfriend, Yuuri dropped his bag, grabbed the dogs, and went right back out without a word. Just following Yakov’s advice.

_> > did he apologize yet?_

Yura’s text brought a smile to Yuuri’s tear stained face. It came as no surprise that the whole studio knew they were fighting. It was kind of nice, actually. A sign that he was cared for here, that he was loved. Yuuri remembered how terrified he’d been of this partnership, of just the idea of this partnership, and all the risks it entailed. While this fight was certainly annoying and inconveniently timed, by the time he made it back to their apartment, Yuuri didn't find it as terrifying as he once feared their fights would be, already secure in his relationship with Viktor both on and off the floor in the few weeks they've spent together. This may have been their first fight but it wasn’t going to be the last. And somehow, that was okay.

“Hi.” Yuuri’s eyes met Viktor’s from across the room the moment he let in the pups. They looked red, as his own must have surely been.

In the time it took for Yuuri to hang up his coat and toe off his shoes, a warm hand had appeared at his hip to steady him while another cupped his face. He glanced up just in time to see remnants of unspilled tears clinging to his lover's lashes before the sensation of soft lips pressed against his own overtook him. It was the most tender kiss they’ve shared yet and Yuuri returned it with equal adoration, relying on that steadying hand as the tension in his body melted away.

This kind of silence was definitely better, his favorite even. 

_v-nikiforov: [image: Yuuri in a follower’s poise, shot from the perspective of a leader holding him]_

_katsukiyuuri: [image: Viktor’s topline, shot from the perspective of a follower in his frame]_

_viktuuri: [image: Yuuri and Viktor in a picture-line figure with développé]_

* * *

Mila was the studio’s unofficial stylist during their time at Ohio, having come in support even though she wasn’t competing herself. She expected to be back to this floor soon enough. In a few more months, she’d be ready to take the first of her teaching exams. The search for a new partner would start after that. In the meantime, she was having plenty of fun with her new Salsero boyfriend.

“So, what do you think?” She handed a mirror to Yura. There was just enough time to start over if he didn’t like the eye makeup she’d done for him. It was more dramatic than the trial run they’d done a few days ago, but she thought the deeper smokiness worked well in bringing out his eyes and highlighting their choice of emerald pocket squares over traditional white ones.

A mumbled _thanks_ was good enough praise from the kitten, who she suspected would, in a few year’s time, grow into a minx. The bigger compliment, however, was the way Otabek hesitantly eyed his younger partner in approval. It was the first time Mila had seen him look at _anyone_ in a way other than platonic. After one more coat of hairspray for them both, just in case, she rushed them off to warm up and joined Yuuri and Viktor in the audience.

As most morning sessions, this one was sparsely attended and they had much of the first row to themselves. The floor was crowded, all thirteen couples of the semi-final dancing in one group. Yuuri and Viktor watched critically, pleased to find that competition really brought out the best in both Yuri and Otabek, who performed better than in practice, demonstrating a solid topline and connection, and even taking some risks with the music. The trio clapped and cheered as loudly and enthusiastically as if it were an evening session, calling out their favorite couple’s number at every opportunity. Whenever 623 passed where they sat, the entire ballroom knew it. However, as trained professionals, they didn't only watch Yuri and Otabek; they watched entire floor. 

At the end of the quickstep, after their final bows, Otabek’s stage smile faded to neutral while Yuri’s continued to swell with pride as beads of sweat rolled down his face. Yuuri and Viktor were equally proud for them—they'd danced wonderfully—and continued to cheer and whistle as the couples left the floor to wait for who would be recalled. Yuuri and Viktor, however, didn’t have to wait for the results. They looked at each other with concern, both already knowing their young friends wouldn’t make the final. 

Yuuri found his blonde namesake in the bathroom, furiously wiping his eyes with tissue. When their gazes met in the mirror, Yuri flinched away to look down into the sink.

“I’m not crying. Just trying to get this damn makeup off.”

In response, Yuuri simply opened his arms and waited for the weight of a distraught 14-year old to hit his chest. It happened almost instantly. Messy tears followed shortly after, but stopped sooner than expected.

“When you dance with the idiot tomorrow, show them what we can do.”

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Followers spend a considerable amount of time working on their head position in general, and especially when opening to and closing from promenade.
> 
> The hints have been subtle at best, but Chris lives in southern California, while Celestino’s studio is in northern California. 
> 
> For those who ship Phichit and Chris, they’d match well as a couple in either Latin or Smooth:  
> Phichit: 5’5”  
> Chris: 6’0”
> 
> Yakov: 5'9"  
> Lilia: 5'7"
> 
> In real life, Under 21 Standard is held the morning after Open Pro Standard. But I changed it here to be the day before instead, for plot reasons.
> 
> Yura and Otabek are both younger and have less experience than the other couples in Under 21. This is the first time Yura’s danced as a follower and open choreography of any kind. It’s completely realistic that they wouldn’t place well despite doing their best. They’ll come back stronger next year. 
> 
> ***
> 
> I hope you’re all safe during this time.
> 
> Final chapter: Yuuri and Viktor make history.


	19. Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor make history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viennese waltz is the oldest and simplest of the ballroom dances. It consists almost entirely of basic natural (right) and reverse (left) turns, with the exact same steps for both leader and follower.

Drool. Yuuri groaned as he roused from their afternoon nap, feeling the tiny pool of dribble that had spilled out the side of his partner’s mouth and onto his shoulder some time in the last twenty minutes. Their alarm wasn’t due to go off for nearly another hour, Viktor preferring to sleep in as late as possible. But Yuuri couldn’t sleep anymore this close to competition. He needed to keep himself busy with getting ready, warming up, something, _anything_.

But even making the choice of _what_ would have to wait until he managed to free himself from the dead weight of an arm around his waist. On any other day, the dogs would have come to the rescue, Vicchan distracting Viktor with kisses just long enough for Makkachin to wiggle her way into taking Yuuri’s place. The dogs weren’t with them today, however, so a pillow would have suffice.

It wasn’t just any other day.

Having successfully squirmed out of Viktor’s arms, Yuuri stepped out to the living room where suitcases sprawled across the floor and costumes hung in garment bags in the closet. Tomorrow, he would appreciate the appeal of staying in a suite, of having a dance-free sanctuary in the form a separate bedroom away from the chaos of shoe polish and hair products. Today, however, he was solely focused on tonight.

Deciding on obsessively checking his tail suit as the _what_ to keep busy, Yuuri carefully took it out to admire the intricate details of the back. With care, he traced his fingers across the rhinestone design, a stylized fluer de lis, elongated, the flower petals emphasizing his shoulder blades, the upturned base ending at his lower back. Deep purple crystals, intermixed with garnet and jet ones, provided elegant depth and dimension against the already rich black velvet. He loved everything about this costume, especially that it was a match to Viktor's, and hoped he would do it justice.

“You look beautiful in it.” Viktor appeared from behind, draping himself over his boyfriend in what has now become the usual fashion before gently nibbling at his neck. Yuuri felt himself blush. How was it that Viktor could still do this to him, each and every time?

“You look beautiful in yours, too.” He leaned back into the welcoming embrace.

“Can’t sleep?”

Yuuri slowly shook his head from side to side, dropping his chin slightly each time in a combination of slight guilt and shame. He didn't want Viktor to worry. “No.”

“What can I do?”

Hesitantly, he took Viktor’s hand, absently brushing his thumb over that slender ring finger while leading them both to the couch to sit. A request to be held. “Just stay close to me?”

The reply came easily, “Always.”

Yuuri was nervous. In their first few days together, the couple confirmed what they already suspected—they both preferred pure lead and follow. From there, they quickly put together some fall-back routines for each of the 5 dances while spending the majority of practice time calibrating, attuning to each other, so they could comfortably deviate. After Yuuri officially moved in, they shifted focus to their showdance. The change in choreography made the dance incredibly meaningful for them both, and they split their practice time between it and Yuuri’s role as a follower. But in order to perform this dance for the world, they _had_ to make the final. 

The longer they sat, the firmer Yuuri's resolve became. They _would_ make the final. It would only be a matter of placement. After all, any follower would look good dancing with Viktor. And Yuuri knew he was just as good as Mila. A small part of him even dared to believe that he was better. Besides, he'd made a promise. And, yet, nervous energy still swirled deep within him.

Unpretzeling themselves from the couch when the alarm finally went off, they proceeded to get ready. It would soon be time.

Viktor’s smile was heart-shaped when he handed Yuuri that seemingly insignificant sheet of paper, each corner with a punched out circle, a large, bold number printed in the center. 382. With a deep breath, Yuuri took to task and stepped behind his partner to pin the number, their number. He positioned it and repositioned it a few times before securing the first pin and continued to smooth out the paper until all four corners were perfectly in place. As much importance as this moment held for him—the first of many competition firsts in his new role as follower—he knew it meant even more to Viktor, who was holding his arms out in frame, unwilling to tame his expression of child-like glee.

They had talked at length about Viktor’s past partnerships and the kind of partner he’d waited for over a decade to find. In truth, although their paths to get here were so different, at some point in the last two months, Yuuri came to understand that he’d been waiting for the same kind of partner, too. Someone who accepted him, embraced him, but also pushed him beyond what even he expected of himself. A true partner. In dance, in life. And that’s why tonight, after the competition, after the celebrations, emboldened by their performance and the subsequent realization that he wanted to keep going, that he wanted _more_ , Yuuri would blurt out a clumsy proposal, asking Viktor to accept his offer for a lasting commitment.

* * *

Drawing the last spot for the showdance meant they had the luxury of extra time to get ready that they didn't actually need. Their costumes were simple. No jackets, only dress shirts. Yuuri’s white, Viktor’s black. So instead, they stood away from the ballroom, hidden, sharing a tender embrace until a frantic on-deck captan would come looking for them. But until then, Yuuri allowed himself to simply to enjoy the moment. Because earlier that night, piercing eyes, their color a brilliant swirl of blues and teals that could be the envy of even the most perfect tropical coast, lit up with adoration as they found their way to Yuuri’s at the start of each and every dance.

Viktor had never been a patient man, but he was stubborn, unwilling to give up. And now, with their foreheads pressed together and Yuuri's sparkling eyes looking back at him, he knew the years of waiting, of lost hope, had definitely been more than worth it. Because, among everything else, for the first time, he had something to look forward to after Ohio—the privilege of celebrating Thanksgiving with a real family, Yuuri’s.

Not even the thrill of dancing the group rounds earlier that evening compared to the excitement Viktor felt now as they waited to be welcomed to the floor. The audience had gone crazy for them then and he could only imagine how they would react now. Yuuri released him with a final squeeze of the hand. 

The opening notes began to play to an empty floor until the first recognizable beat of a Viennese waltz, Viktor’s cue to explode out from the side into perfectly-executed natural and reverse turns. He danced the perimeter alone, an imaginary partner in his lonely arms, the topline flawless.

_Can you hear my heart beat?_  
_Tired of feeling never enough_  
_I close my eyes and tell myself_  
_That my dreams will come true_  


With the start of the next verse, Yuuri entered the floor, dancing his own natural and reverse turns on the opposite walls, also as a leader, his topline rivaling Viktor’s.

_There'll be no more darkness_  
_When you believe in yourself_  
_You are unstoppable_  
_Where your destiny lies_  
_Dancing on the floor_  


Each line of the lyrics brought them closer together, their circles around the floor and each other tightening, telling their story, until they danced exquisitely side by side. One, two, three. One, two, three. The length of strides, the amount of turn matched perfectly, but for one final moment when Viktor pivoted, giving him extra rotation—

_You set my heart on fire_

—while he stretched away to the left, taking a follower’s poise. Yuuri caught him seamlessly, neither hearing the thunderous roar of applause, too lost in the moment to care about anyone but each other. They continued to spin across the floor with rare speed and power, thanks to their greater mass compared to an opposite-sex couple. Neither believed the dizziness, however, was due to anything other than the high of fully experiencing life and love. They were almost disappointed when the song finally approached its end. 

Almost. Viktor couldn’t contain his wide smile, the pure joy of following his favorite leader in competition had him preening. He itched for the final flourish, a spin out to face the audience, to bow, to curtsy, to soak up the cheers. 

_Yes, we were born to make history_

The chaste kiss they shared after their bows was electric. And when they proudly walked off the floor hand in hand, faces flushed from the adrenaline, foreheads dripping with sweat, it was to a deafening standing ovation. In that moment, Yuuri decided that he didn't care about today's results. Because they were able to perform the dance that mattered most. Because they were in it for the long game. Because after tonight, everyone would know that Yuuri Katsuki loved Viktor Nikiforov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Yuuri’s tail suit design was inspired by the Yuri on Ice free skate costume. It was a perfect choice because dancers often use language and analogies that compare followers to flowers. For example, "the spine is the stem" or the leader's job is to "make the follower bloom."
> 
> When I first heard History Maker, I immediately wanted to dance Viennese waltz. It’s not quite danceable as-is, but since Ketty and Viktor know music composition things in canon, they were able to make it work! 
> 
> Viktor and Yuuri have a long career ahead of them since many ballroom dancers peak well into their 30s. The recently retired 9-time World Professional Latin Champions were 42 and 37.
> 
> Here are some links for a glance at life at the highest level of competition…
> 
> \- Trailer for a raw documentary from a few years back about a former Latin world champion making a comeback with his girlfriend as his new partner. Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aE53piERkPk
> 
> \- Nice highlights reel of the life of a top Standard couple: https://youtu.be/WegmmPOGoDE
> 
> \- Nice interview with Standard champion Victor Fung about his career: https://www.theathletescorner.net/insiders-voices/2019/5/22/the-story-of-a-ballroom-dance-legend
> 
> ***
> 
> That’s it! Thank you for going along on this journey with me. Writing this fic has helped me get through the last few months with my sanity intact and I hope it helped you in some way, too. 
> 
> On the dance side, USDC (“Nationals”) was cancelled this year. Some competitions have gone virtual, while others have started to run mostly as usual. ~~Ohio is still happening.~~ Ohio was also cancelled. 
> 
> My childhood dream of competing in Standard continues to elude me. My partner moved two time zones away to be with his family and I‘m mentally struggling with solo practice. Between that and the new restrictions and fees on floor time at the studio, it might be a while until I'm fully back to it. I still have a gorgeous new gown waiting for me, purchased for the comp that was supposed to happen at the end of March. I hope to wear it some time next year. In the meantime, I’ve become friendly with ballet again. 
> 
> On the skating side, I’ve pretty much fallen in love despite my many frustrations with the teaching methodology. Some day when rink operations return to normal, with easier access to coaches and ice time, I plan to get pickier with my lessons. If I'm going to take any wisdom from ballroom, it's that private lessons with the right coach are worth every penny and then some. :)
> 
> Again, thank you for reading. Stay well!


End file.
